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THE     MODERN     LIBRARY 

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THE    RED    LILY 


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THE  RED  LILY 


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THE  RED  LILY 


SHE  looked  round  at  the  arm-chairs,  grouped  in  front  of 
the  fire,  at  the  tea-table  with  its  tea-things  glittering 
like  shadows,  at  the  big  bunches  of  delicately  coloured 
flowers  in  Chinese  vases.  Lightly  she  touched  the  sprays  of 
guelder  roses  and  toyed  with  their  silver  buds.  Then  she 
gazed  gravely  in  the  glass.  Standing  sideways  and  looking 
over  her  shoulder,  she  followed  the  outline  of  her  fine 
figure  in  its  sheath  of  black  satin,  over  which  floated  a  thin 
drapery,  sown  with  beads  and  scintillating  with  lights  of 
flame.  Curious  to  examine  that  day's  countenance,  she  ap- 
proached the  mirror.  Tranquilly  and  approvingly  it  re- 
turned her  glance  as  if  the  charming  woman  it  was  reflecting 
lived  a  life  devoid  of  intense  joy  and  profound  sadness.  On 
the  walls  of  the  great  empty  silent  drawing-room,  the  tap- 
estry figures  at  their  ancient  games,  vague  in  the  shadow, 
grew  pale  with  dying  grace.  Like  them,  the  terra  cotta 
statuettes  on  pedestals,  the  groups  of  old  Dresden  china, 
the  paintings  on  Sevres,  displayed  in  glass  cases,  spoke  of 
things  past.  On  a  stand  decorated  with  precious  bronzes 
the  marble  bust  of  some  royal  princess,  disguised  as  Diana, 
with  irregular  features  and  prominent  breast,  escaped  from 
her  troubled  drapery,  whilst  on  the  ceiling  a  Night,  pow- 
dered like  a  marquise  and  surrounded  by  Cupids,  scattered 
flowers.  Everything  was  slumbering,  and  there  was  heard 
only  the  crackling  of  the  fire  and  the  slight  rustling  of 
beads  on  gauze. 

Turning  from  the  glass,  she  went  to  the  window,  raised 
one  corner  of  the  curtain,  and  looked  out  into  the  pale  twi- 
light, through  the  black  trees  on  the  quay  to  the  yellow 
waters  of  the  Seine.  The  grey  weariness  of  sky  and  water 


6  THE  RED  LILY 

was  reflected  in  the  greyness  of  her  beautiful  eyes.  One  of 
the  "Swallow"  boats  passed,  coming  out  from  under  an  arch 
of  the  Pont  de  1'Alma,  and  bearing  humble  passengers  to- 
wards Crenelle  and  Billancourt.  She  looked  after  it  as  it 
drifted  down  the  muddy  current;  then  she  let  the  curtain 
fall,  and,  sitting  down  in  her  accustomed  corner  of  the  sofa, 
under  the  flowers,  she  took  up  a  book,  laid  upon  the  table 
just  within  hand's  reach.  On  its  straw-coloured  linen  cover 
glittered  in  gold  the  title:  Yscult  la  Blonde,  by  Vivian 
Bell.  It  was  a  collection  of  French  verse  written  by  an 
Englishwoman  and  printed  in  London.  She  opened  it  by 
chance  and  read: 

Like  to  a  worshipper  who  prays  and  sings, 
The  bell  on  the  quivering  air  "Hail  Mary !"  rings ; 
And  there  in  the  orchard,  'mid  the  apple  trees, 
The  messenger  the  shuddering  virgin  sees, 
Awed,  his  red  lily  takes,  whose  perfum'd  breath 
Makes  her  who  breathes  it  half  in  love  with  death. 

In  the  wall'd  garden,  in  the  cool  of  the  day, 
Through  her  cleft  lips  her  soul  would  speed  away, 
Her  life,  at  some  unconquerable  behest, 
Even  as  a  stream,  pour  from  her  ivory  breast.* 

Waiting  for  her  visitors  to  arrive,  she  read,  indifferent 
and  absent-minded,  thinking  less  of  the  poetry  than  of  the 
poetess:  that  Miss  Bell,  her  most  delightful  friend  perhaps, 
but  one  whom  she  hardly  ever  saw.  At  each  of  their  rare 
meetings.  Miss  Bell  embraced  her,  pecked  her  on  the  cheek, 
called  her  darling,  and  then  gushed  into  prattling  talk. 
Ugly  ard  yet  attractive,  slightly  ridiculous  and  altogether 

'  Quand  la  cloche,  faisant  comme  qui  chante  et  prie, 
Dit  dans  le  ciel  emu :  "Je  vous  salue,  Marie," 
La  vierge,  en  visitant  les  pommiers  du  verger, 
Frissonne  d'avoir  vu  venir  le  messager 
Qui  lui  presente  un  lys  rouge  et  tel  qu'on  desire 
Mourir  de  son  parfum  sitot  qu'on  le  respire. 

La  vierge  au  jardin  clos,  dans  la  douceur  du  soir, 
Sent  1'ame  lui  monter  aux  levres,  et  croit  voir 
Couler  sa  vie  ainsi  qu'un  ruisseau  qui  s'epanche 
En  limpide  filet  de  sa  poitrine  blanche. 


THE  RED  LILY  7 

exquisite,  Miss  Bell  lived  at  Fiesole  as  aesthete  and  philos- 
opher, while  in  England  she  was  renowned  as  the  favourite 
English  poetess.  Like  Vernon  Lee  and  Mary  Robinson,  she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Tuscan  life  and  art;  and,  without 
staying  to  complete  her  Tristan,  the  first  part  of  which  had 
inspired  Burne- Jones  to  paint  dreams  in  water-colours,  she 
was  expressing  Italian  ideas  in  Provengal  and  French  verse. 
She  had  sent  her  Yseult  la  Blonde  to  "darling,"  with  a 
letter  inviting  her  to  spend  a  month  at  her  house  at  Fiesole. 
She  had  written,  "Come;  you  will  see  the  most  beautiful 
things  in  the  world,  and  you  will  make  them  more 
beautiful." 

And  "darling"  was  saying  to  herself  that  she  would  not 
go,  that  she  was  detained  in  Paris.  But  she  was  not  in- 
different to  the  idea  of  seeing  Miss  Bell  and  Italy  again. 
Turning  over  the  pages  of  the  book,  she  fell  upon  this  line: 

The  self-same  thing  a  kindly  heart  and  love.* 

And  she  wondered  ironically  but  kindly  whether  Miss  Bell 
had  ever  loved,  and  if  so  what  her  love-story  had  been. 
The  poetess  had  an  admirer  at  Fiesole,  Prince  Albertinelli. 
He  was  very  handsome,  but  he  seemed  too  matter-of-fact 
and  commonplace  to  please  an  aesthete  for  whom  love  would 
have  something  of  the  mysticism  of  an  Annunciation. 

"How  do  you  do,  Therese?    I  am  done  up." 

It  was  Princess  Seniavine,  graceful  in  her  furs,  which 
were  hardly  distinguishable  from  her  dark  sallow  complex- 
ion. She  sat  down  brusquely,  and  in  tones  harsh  yet 
caressing,  at  once  bird-like  and  masculine,  she  said: 

"This  morning  I  walked  right  through  the  Bois  with 
General  Lariviere.  I  met  him  in  the  Alice  des  Potins,  and 
took  him  to  the  Pont  d'Argenteuil,  where  he  insisted  on 
buying  from  a  keeper  and  presenting  to  me  a  trained  mag- 
pie, which  goes  through  its  drill  with  a  little  gun.  I  am 
tired  out." 

"Why  ever  did  you  take  the  General  so  far  as  the  Pont 
d'Argenteuil?" 

"Because  he  had  gout  in  his  big  toe." 

*  Amour  et  gentil  coeur  sont  une  meme  chose. 


8  THE  RED  LILY 

Therese  shrugged  her  shoulders,  smiling: 

"You  are  wasting  your  malice;  and  you  are  blundering." 

"And  you,  my  dear,  would  have  me  economise  my  kind- 
ness and  my  malice  with  a  view  to  a  serious  investment?" 

She  drank  some  Tokay. 

Announced  by  the  sound  of  loud  breathing,  General 
Lariviere  came  in,  treading  heavily.  He  kissed  the  hands 
of  both  women.  Then,  with  a  determined,  self-satisfied  air, 
sat  down  between  them,  ogling  and  laughing  in  every  wrinkle 
of  his  forehead. 

"How  is  M.  Martin-Belleme?    Still  busy?" 

Therese  thought  that  he  was  at  the  Chamber  and  making 
a  speech  there. 

Princess  Seniavine,  who  was  eating  caviar  sandwiches, 
asked  Madame  Martin,  why  she  was  not  at  Madame  Meil- 
lan's  yesterday.  There  was  a  play  acted. 

"A  Scandinavian  play.    Was  it  a  success?" 

"Yes.  And  yet  I  don't  know.  I  was  in  the  little  green 
drawing-room,  under  the  Duke  of  Orleans's  portrait.  M. 
le  Menil  came  and  rendered  me  one  of  those  services  one 
never  forgets.  He  saved  me  from  M.  Garain." 

The  General,  who  was  a  regular  Who's  Who,  storing  in 
his  big  head  all  kinds  of  useful  information,  pricked  up  his 
ears  at  this  name. 

"Garain,"  he  asked,  "the  minister  who  was  a  member  of 
the  Cabinet  at  the  time  of  the  Princes'  exile?" 

"The  very  same.  He  was  extremely  occupied  with  me. 
He  was  explaining  his  heart's  longings  and  looking  at  me 
with  a  most  alarming  tenderness.  And  from  time  to  time 
with  a  sigh  he  glanced  at  the  Duke  of  Orleans's  portrait. 
I  said  to  him:  Monsieur  Garain,  you  are  making  a  mis- 
take. It  is  my  sister-in-law  who  is  Orleanist.  I  am  not  in 
the  least.  At  that  moment  M.  le  Menil  arrived  to  take  me 
to  have  some  refreshment.  He  complimented  me  on  my 
horses.  He  told  me  there  were  none  finer  that  winter  in  the 
Bois.  He  talked  of  wolves  and  wolf  cubs.  It  was  most  re- 
freshing." 

The  General,  who  never  liked  young  men,  said  that  he 
had  met  Le  Menil  in  the  Bois  the  evening  before  galloping 
a*  a  break-neck  pace. 


THE  RED  LILY  9 

He  declared  that  it  was  only  old  horsemen  who  main- 
tained the  good  tradition,  and  that  the  men  of  fashion  of 
the  day  were  wrong  in  riding  like  jockeys. 

"It  is  the  same  in  fencing,"  he  added.    "Formerly " 

Princess  Seniavine  suddenly  interrupted  him: 

"General,  see  how  pretty  Madame  Martin  is.  She  is 
always  charming,  but  at  this  moment  she  is  more  so  than 
ever.  It  is  because  she  is  bored.  Nothing  becomes  her  bet- 
ter than  boredom.  We  have  been  wearying  her  ever  since 
we  came.  Just  look  at  her  overcast  brow,  her  wandering 
glance,  her  mournful  mouth.  She  is  a  victim." 

She  jumped  up,  kissed  Therese  affectionately,  and  fled, 
leaving  the  General  astonished. 

Madame  Martin-Belleme  entreated  him  to  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  such  a  madcap. 

He  was  reassured  and  asked: 

"And  how  are  your  poets,  Madame?" 

He  found  it  difficult  to  pardon  Madame  Martin's  liking 
for  people  who  wrote  and  did  not  belong  to  his  circle. 

"Yes,  your  poets?  What  has  become  of  that  M.  Chou- 
lette,  who  used  to  come  and  see  you  in  a  red  com- 
forter?" 

"My  poets  are  forgetting  me;  they  are  forsaking  me. 
You  can't  depend  on  any  one.  Men,  things — nothing  is 
certain.  Life  is  one  long  treachery.  That  poor  Miss  Bell 
is  the  only  one  who  does  not  forget  me.  She  has  written 
from  Florence  and  sent  me  her  book." 

"Miss  Bell;  isn't  she  that  young  person  with  frizzed 
yellow  hair,  who  looks  like  a  lap-dog?" 

He  made  a  mental  calculation  and  concluded  that  by 
now  she  must  be  at  least  thirty. 

A  white-haired  old  lady,  modestly  dignified,  and  a  little 
keen-eyed,  vivacious  man  entered  one  after  the  other: 
Madame  Marmet  and  M.  Paul  Vence.  Then  very  stiff, 
wearing  an  eye-glass,  appeared  M.  Daniel  Salomon,  sover- 
eign arbiter  of  taste.  The  General  made  off. 

They  talked  of  the  novel  of  the  week.  Madame  Marmet 
had  dined  with  the  author  several  times,  a  very  charming 
young  man.  Paul  Vence  thought  the  book  dull. 

"Oh!"  sighed  Madame  Martin,  "all  books  are  dull.    But 


io  THE  RED  LILY 

men  are  much  duller  than  books;  and  they  are  more 
exacting." 

Madame  Marmet  asserted  that  her  husband,  a  man  of 
fine  literary  taste,  had  felt  an  intense  horror  of  realism 
to  the  end  of  his  days. 

The  widow  of  a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Inscriptions, 
sweet  and  modest  in  her  black  dress,  with  her  beautiful 
white  hair,  Madame  Marmet  prided  herself  in  society  on 
being  the  widow  of  an  illustrious  man. 

Madame  Martin  told  M.  Daniel  Salomon  she  would  like 
to  consult  him  about  a  porcelain  group  of  children. 

"It  is  Saint-Cloud.  Tell  me  if  you  like  it.  You  must 
give  me  your  opinion  too,  Monsieur  Vence,  unless  you  scorn 
such  trifles." 

M.  Daniel  Salomon  gazed  at  Paul  Vence  through  his 
eye-glass  with  sullen  haughtiness. 

Paul  Vence  was  looking  round  the  drawing-room. 

"You  have  some  beautiful  things,  Madame.  And  that 
in  itself  would  be  little.  But  you  have  only  beautiful  things 
and  those  which  become  you." 

She  did  not  conceal  her  gratification  at  hearing  him  speak 
thus.  She  considered  Paul  Vence  to  be  the  only  thoroughly 
intelligent  man  among  her  visiting  acquaintance.  She  had 
appreciated  him  before  his  books  had  made  him  famous. 
Ill-health,  a  gloomy  temper,  hard  work  kept  him  out  of 
society.  This  bilious  little  man  was  not  very  agreeable. 
Nevertheless  he  attracted  her.  She  thought  very  highly  of 
his  profound  irony,  his  untamed  pride,  his  talent  matured 
in  solitude;  and  she  justly  admired  him  as  an  excellent 
writer,  the  author  of  fine  essays  on  art  and  manners. 

The  drawing-room  filled  gradually  with  a  brilliant  assem- 
bly. The  big  circle  of  arm-chairs  now  included  Madame  de 
Vresson,  about  whom  terrible  stories  were  told,  but,  who, 
after  twenty  years  of  partially  suppressed  scandals,  re- 
tained a  youthful  complexion  and  looked  out  on  the  world 
through  child-like  eyes;  old  Madame  de  Morlaine,  viva- 
cious, scatter-brained,  giving  utterance  to  her  witty  re- 
marks in  piercing  shrieks,  while  she  agitated  her  unwieldy 
figure,  like  a  swimmer  in  a  life-belt;  Madame  Raymond, 
the  <yife  of  an  Academician;  Madame  Garain,  the  wife  of 


THE  RED  LILY  n 

an  ex-Minister,  three  other  ladies;  and  standing  by  the 
mantelpiece,  warming  himself  at  the  fire,  M.  Berthier 
d'Eyzelles,  editor  of  Le  Journal  des  Dlbats  and  deputy, 
who  was  stroking  his  white  whiskers  and  trying  to  show 
himself  off,  while  Madame  de  Morlaine  was  screaming 
at  him: 

"Your  article  on  bimetallism  a  treasure,  a  gem!  The 
end  especially,  pure  inspiration." 

Standing  at  the  end  of  the  drawing-room,  a  few  young 
clubmen  were  solemnly  drawling  their  conversation. 

"How  is  it  he  has  managed  to  hunt  with  the  Prince's 
hounds?" 

"He  did  nothing.    It  was  his  wife." 

They  had  their  philosophy  of  life.  One  of  them  never 
believed  in  promises. 

"There's  A  kind  of  person  I  can't  stand:  a  man  with 
his  heart  in  his  hand  and  on  his  lips.  When  you  are 
standing  for  a  club,  he  says:  'I  promise  to  vote  for  you.' 
'Yes,  but  what  will  your  vote  be?'  'Why,  of  course  not  a 
black-ball.'  But  at  the  election  it  turns  out  he  has  put 
in  a  black-ball.  Life  is  full  of  dirty  tricks  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it." 

"Then  don't  think  of  it,"  said  a  third. 

Daniel  Salomon,  who  had  joined  them,  was  whispering 
scandalous  gossip,  with  an  air  of  decorum.  And  at  each 
interesting  disclosure  concerning  Madame  Raymond,  Ma- 
dame Berthier  d'Eyzelles,  and  the  Princess  Seniavine  he 
added  carelessly:  "Every  one  knows  it." 

Then  gradually  the  crowd  of  visitors  melted  away.  There 
remained  only  Madame  Marmet  and  Paul  Vence.  The  lat- 
ter went  up  to  the  Countess  Martin  and  asked: 

"When  shall  I  bring  Dechartre  to  see  you?" 

It  was  the  second  time  he  had  asked  her.  She  was  not 
fond  of  new  faces.  Very  carelessly  she  replied: 

"Your  sculptor?  When  you  like.  At  the  Champs  de 
Mars  I  saw  some  medallions  by  him  which  were  very  good. 
But  he  produces  little.  He  is  an  amateur,  isn't  he?" 

"He  is  sensitive.  He  does  not  need  to  work  for  a  live- 
lihood. He  caresses  his  statues  with  a  lingering  affection. 
But  be  assured,  Madame,  he  knows  and  he  feels;  he  would 


12  THE  RED  LILY 

be  a  master  if  he  did  not  live  alone.  I  have  known  him 
since  he  was  a  child.  He  is  thought  to  be  malicious  and 
irritable.  He  is  really  passionate  and  shy.  His  defect,  a 
defect  which  will  always  hinder  him  from  attaining  the 
highest  point  of  his  art,  is  a  lack  of  simplicity  of  mind. 
He  grows  anxious,  distracted,  and  spoils  his  finest  impres- 
sions. In  my  opinion  he  is  less  suited  for  sculpture  than 
for  poetry  or  philosophy.  He  knows  a  greal  deal,  and 
his  well-stored  mind  would  astonish  you." 

The  benevolent  Madame  Marmet  approved. 

She  pleased  in  society  because  she  appeared  as  if  so- 
ciety pleased  her.  She  listened  well  and  spoke  little.  Very 
kind-hearted,  she  made  her  kindness  valued  by  not  be- 
stowing it  at  once.  Whether  it  was  that  she  really  liked 
Madame  Martin  or  that  she  made  a  point  of  showing  dis- 
creet signs  of  preference  in  every  house  she  visited,  she 
was  warming  herself  contentedly,  like  a  grandmother,  in 
a  corner  by  the  fire  under  that  Louis  XVI  mantel-piece 
which  was  an  effective  background  to  the  tolerant  old  lady's 
beauty.  The  only  thing  lacking  was  her  lap-dog. 

"How  is  Toby?"  asked  Madame  Martin.  "Monsieur 
Vence,  do  you  know  Toby?  He  has  long  silky  hair  and 
a  lovely  little  black  nose." 

Madame  Marmet  was  enjoying  this  praise  of  Toby  when 
there  entered  a  fair  rosy-cheeked  old  man,  with  curly  hair; 
short-legged  and  short-sighted,  almost  blind  under  his 
gold  spectacles.  He  came  in,  knocking  against  the  furni- 
ture, greeting  empty  arm-chairs  and  running  into  mirrors. 
Then  he  pushed  his  beaked  nose  in  front  of  Madame  Mar- 
met,  who  looked  at  him  indignantly.  It  was  M.  Schmoll, 
of  the  Academy  of  Inscriptions.  His  smile  was  an  affected 
grimace.  He  recited  madrigals  in  honour  of  Countess 
Martin  in  that  hereditary  unctuous  tone  in  which  his  Jewish 
fathers  had  importuned  their  creditors,  the  peasants  of 
Alsace,  Poland,  and  the  Crimea.  He  drawled  out  his  sen- 
tences. A  member  of  the  French  Institute,  this  great 
philologist  knew  every  language  except  French.  His  gal- 
lantry amused  Madame  Martin.  As  rusty  and  heavy  as 
the  pieces  of  old  iron  sold  by  second-hand  dealers,  its 
only  adornment  was  a  few  dried  flowers  culled  from  the 


THE  RED  LILY  13 

Greek  Anthology.  M.  Schmoll  was  a  lover  of  poets  and 
of  women;  and  he  was  intelligent. 

Madame  Marmet  pretended  not  to  know  him,  and  went 
out  without  returning  his  greeting.  When  he  had  exhausted 
his  madrigals,  M.  Schmoll  became  sad  and  discontented. 
He  groaned  frequently.  He  complained  bitterly  at  the  way 
he  was  treated;  he  was  neither  sufficiently  decorated  nor 
sufficiently  provided  with  sinecures,  nor  were  he  and 
Madame  Schmoll  and  their  five  daughters  sufficiently  well 
housed  at  the  State's  expense.  There  was  a  certain  great- 
ness in  his  lamentations.  Something  of  the  soul  of  Ezekiel 
and  Jeremiah  was  in  him. 

Unfortunately  looking  along  the  level  of  the  table  with 
his  gold  spectacles,  he  perceived  Vivian  Bell's  book. 

"Ah!  Yseult  la  Blonde,"  he  cried  bitterly:  "that  is  the 
book  you  are  reading,  Madame.  I  should  like  you  to  know 
that  Vivian  Bell  has  robbed  me  of  an  inscription,  and 
that  worse  still  she  has  distorted  it  by  putting  it  into 
verse.  You  will  find  it  in  the  book,  page  109: 

"Weep  not,  lowered  lids  between, 

What  is  not,  never  has  been — " 
"Stem  not  my  tears,  dear  maid, 

A  shade  may  weep  for  a  shade !"  * 

"You  hear,  Madame:  A  shade  may  weep  for  a  shade. 
Well!  those  words  are  literally  translated  from  a  funeral 
inscription  which  I  was  the  first  to  publish  and  to  criticise. 
Last  year,  when  I  was  dining  at  your  house,  finding  myself 
next  to  Miss  Bell  at  table,  I  quoted  that  sentence,  which 
greatly  pleased  her.  At  her  request  the  very  next  day  I 
translated  the  whole  inscription  into  French  and  sent  it 
to  her.  And  now  I  find  it  dismembered  and  disfigured  in 
this  volume  of  verse,  with  the  title:  On  the  Via  Sacra!  The 
Sacred  Way!  I  am  that  way." 

And  he  repeated  with  grotesque  bad  temper: 
"It  is  I  who  am  that  Sacred  Way,  Madame." 

*  "Ne  pleure  pas,  toi  que  j'aimais: 
Ce  qui  n'est  plus  ne  fut  jamais. 
Laisse  couler  ma  douleur  sombre; 
Unc  ombre  peut  pleurer  une  ombre." 


14  THE  RED  LILY 

He  was  annoyed  that  the  poet  had  not  mentioned  him 
in  connection  with  the  inscription.  He  would  have  liked 
to  read  his  name  at  the  head  of  the  poem,  in  the  lines, 
in  the  rhyme.  He  was  always  wanting  to  see  his  name 
everywhere.  He  was  always  looking  for  it  in  the  news- 
papers with  which  his  pockets  were  stuffed.  But  he  was 
not  vindictive.  He  bore  Miss  Bell  no  ill-will.  He  agreed 
with  a  good  grace  that  she  was  a  very  distinguished  woman 
and  the  most  prominent  English  poet  of  the  day. 

When  he  had  gone,  Countess  Martin  very  ingenuously 
asked  M.  Paul  Vence  if  he  knew  why  kind  Madame  Marmet, 
generally  so  benevolent,  had  greeted  M.  Schmoll  with  such 
angry  silence.  He  was  surprised  that  she  did  not  know. 

"I  never  know  anything." 

"But  the  quarrel  between  Joseph  Schmoll  and  Louis 
Marmet,  with  which  the  Institute  resounded  for  so  long, 
is  very  famous.  It  was  only  ended  by  the  death  of  Marmet 
whom  his  implacable  colleague  pursued  even  to  Pere- 
Lachaise. 

"The  day  that  poor  Marmet  was  buried  sleet  was  fall- 
ing. We  were  frozen  and  wet  to  the  skin.  By  the  grave- 
side, in  the  mist,  in  the  wind  and  the  mud,  Schmoll,  under 
his  umbrella,  read  a  discourse  inspired  by  cruel  jocularity 
and  triumphing  pity.  Afterwards  still  in  the  mourning 
coach,  he  took  it  to  the  newspapers.  When  an  indiscreet 
friend  showed  it  to  Madame  Marmet,  she  faint.  Can  it 
be  possible,  Madame,  that  you  have  never  heard  of  this 
erudite  and  bitter  quarrel? 

"The  Etruscan  language  was  its  cause.  Marmet  de- 
voted his  life  to  the  study  of  Etruscan.  He  was  nicknamed 
'Marmet  the  Etruscan.'  Neither  he  nor  any  one  else  knew 
a  single  word  of  that  completely  lost  language.  Schmoll 
used  to  be  always  saying  to  Marmet:  'You  know  that  you 
don't  know  Etruscan,  my  dear  brother;  that's  why  you  are 
so  greatly  honoured  as  a  scholar  and  a  wit.'  Piqued  by 
such  ironical  praise,  Marmet  determined  to  know  some- 
thing of  Etruscan.  He  read  his  brother  Academicians  a 
paper  on  the  use  of  inflexions  in  the  ancient  Tuscan  idiom." 

Madame  Martin  asked  what  an  inflexion  was. 

"Oh!   Madame,  if  I  stop  to  explain  we  shall  lose  the 


THE  RED  LILY  15 

thread  of  the  story.  Be  content  to  know  that  in  this  paper 
poor  Marmet  quoted  Latin  texts  and  quoted  them  incor- 
rectly. Now  Schmoll  is  an  accomplished  Latin  scholar, 
who,  after  Mommsen,  knows  more  than  any  one  about  in- 
scriptions. 

"He  reproached  his  young  brother  (Marmet  was  not 
quite  fifty)  with  knowing  too  much  Etruscan  and  not 
enough  Latin.  From  that  moment  he  never  let  Marmet 
alone.  At  each  meeting  he  chaffed  him  with  a  mirthful 
ferocity,  so  much  so  that,  in  the  end,  Marmet,  in  spite 
of  his  usual  good  temper,  grew  angry.  Schmoll  is  not 
vindictive.  It  is  a  virtue  of  his  race.  He  bears  those  whom 
he  persecutes  no  ill-will.  One  day,  going  up  the  stairs 
of  the  Institute,  accompanied  by  Renan  and  Oppert,  he 
met  Marmet  and  held  out  his  hand  to  him.  Marmet  re- 
fused to  take  it  and  said:  'I  do  not  know  you.' 

"  'Do  you  take  me  for  a  Latin  inscription?'  replied 
Schmoll.  That  saying  hastened  Marmet's  death.  You  now 
understand  why  his  widow,  who  piously  venerates  his  mem- 
ory, should  be  horrified  by  the  sight  of  his  enemy." 

"And  to  think  that  I  should  have  asked  them  to  dine 
here  together,  and  placed  them  side  by  side!" 

"Madame,  that  was  not  immoral,  but  it  was  cruel." 

"My  dear  sir,  perhaps  I  shall  shock  you,  but  if  it  were 
absolutely  necessary  to  choose,  I  would  rather  be  guilty 
of  an  immoral  act  than  of  a  cruel  one." 

A  tall  young  man,  thin  and  dark,  wearing  a  long  mous- 
tache, now  entered  and  greeted  Madame  Martin  in  an 
easy  but  brusque  manner. 

"Monsieur  Vence,  I  think. you  know  M.  Le  Menil." 

In  reality  they  had  already  met  at  Madame  Martin's 
and  more  than  once  at  the  fencing-school,  which  Menil 
attended  assiduously.  The  day  before  they  had  met  at 
Madame  Meillan's. 

"At  Madame  Meillan's  it  is  always  dull,"  said  Paul 
Vence. 

"And  yet,"  said  M.  Le  Menil,  "she  receives  Academicians. 
I  do  not  exaggerate  their  importance,  but,  after  all,  they 
are  the  elect." 

Madame  Martin  smiled. 


1 6  THE  RED  LILY 

"We  know,  Monsieur  Le  Menil,  that  at  Madame  Meil- 
lan's  you  were  more  occupied  with  women  than  with 
Academicians.  You  took  Princess  Seniavine  to  have  some 
refreshment,  and  talked  to  her  about  wolves." 

"About  what?     About  wolves?" 

"About  wolves — she-wolves  and  wolf-cubs — and  the  bare 
Avoods  of  winter.  We  thought  your  topics  rather  too  bar- 
barous for  so  pretty  a  woman." 

Paul  Vence  rose. 

"So,  if  you  will  permit  me,  Madame,  I  will  bring  you 
my  friend,  Dechartre.  He  is  very  desirous  to  know  you, 
and  I  trust  you  will  like  him.  He  has  an  active  mind. 
He  is  full  of  ideas." 

Madame  Martin  interrupted  him. 

"Oh,  I  don't  ask  for  so  much  as  that.  People  who 
are  natural  and  who  appear  what  they  really  are  rarely 
bore  me  and  sometimes  amuse  me." 

When  Paul  Vence  had  gone,  Le  Menil  listened  to  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps  dying  away  down  the  hall  and  to 
the  noise  of  the  front  door  closing;  then  drawing  nearer 
to  Madame  Martin: 

"Shall  we  say  three  o'clock  to-morrow,  at  home?" 

"Do  you  still  love  me,  then?" 

He  urged  her  to  give  him  an  answer  while  they  were 
alone;  she  tantalisingly  replied  that  it  was  late,  that  she 
expected  no  more  visitors,  and  that  her  husband  was  likely 
to  come  in. 

He  entreated  her  to  give  him  an  answer.  Then,  with- 
out waiting  for  any  further  persuasion,  she  said: 

"You  really  wish  it?  Then  listen.  To-morrow  I  shall 
be  free  the  whole  day.  Expect  me  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
Rue  Spontini.  We  will  go  for  a  walk  afterwards." 

He  thanked  her  with  a  glance.  Then,  having  returned 
to  his  place  opposite  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire- 
place, he  inquired  who  this  Dechartre  was  whom  she  was 
asking  to  come  and  see  her. 

"I  am  not  asking  him  to  come.  Monsieur  Vence  has 
asked  if  he  may  bring  him.  He  is  a  sculptor." 

He  complained  of  her  always  wanting  to  see  new  faces. 

"A  sculptor?    Sculptors  are  frequently  not  gentlemen." 


THE  RED  LILY  if 

"Oh,  but  he  is  so  little  of  a  sculptor!  Still,  if  you  don't 
wish  it,  I  will  not  receive  him." 

"I  should  be  very  annoyed  if  society  were  to  mo- 
nopolise any  of  the  time  you  devote  to  me." 

"My  friend,  you  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  my 
giving  too  much  time  to  society.  Yesterday  I  did  not 
even  go  to  Madame  Meillan's " 

"You  are  quite  right  in  going  there  as  seldom  as  pos- 
sible: it  is  not  a  house  for  you  to  visit." 

He  explained.  All  the  women  one  met  there  had  a 
past  which  was  known  and  talked  about.  Besides  Madame 
Meillan  was  said  to  promote  intrigues.  He  enforced  his 
statement  by  one  or  two  examples. 

Meanwhile,  with  her  hands  on  the  arms  of  her  chair, 
in  a  charming  attitude  of  repose,  her  head  inclined  to  one 
side,  she  was  gazing  at  the  dying  fire.  Her  thoughts  had 
fled:  there  remained  no  sign  of  them,  either  in  her  face 
which  was  rather  sad  or  in  her  languid  pose;  she  was  more 
desirable  than  ever  in  this  slumber  of  her  soul.  For  some 
time  she  continued  in  that  absolute  immobility  which 
enhanced  her  natural  attractiveness  by  an  artistic 
charm. 

He  asked  of  what  she  was  thinking.  Half  escaping  from 
the  melancholy  mesmerism  of  the  embers,  she  said: 

"To-morrow,  if  you  are  willing,  we  will  go  to  the  re- 
mote quarters  of  the  town,  to  those  curious  neighbour- 
hoods where  you  can  observe  the  lives  of  poor  people. 
I  like  streets  that  are  old  and  poverty-stricken." 

While  promising  to  gratify  her  fancy,  he  did  not  con- 
ceal that  he  thought  it  absurd.  These  excursions  on  which 
she  made  him  accompany  her  bored  him  sometimes ;  and  he 
considered  them  dangerous;  they  might  be  seen. 

"And  since  so  far  we  have  succeeded  in  avoiding  being 
talked  about  .  .  ." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Do  you  think  we  have  never  been  talked  about? 
Whether  people  know  or  do  not  know,  they  talk.  Every- 
thing is  not  known,  but  everything  is  said." 

She  returned  to  her  dreaming.  He  thought  her  dissatis- 
fied, vexed  at  something  she  would  not  confide  to  him.  He 


i8  THE  RED  LILY 

leaned  forward  gazing  into  her  fine  dreamy  eyes  in  which 
the  firelight  was  reflected.  But  she  reassured  him: 

"I  don't  know  whether  people  talk  about  me.  And  what 
does  it  matter  if  they  do?  Nothing  matters." 

He  left  her.  He  was  going  to  dine  at  the  club,  where 
his  friend  Caumont,  who  was  passing  through  Paris,  ex- 
pected him.  She  followed  him  with  a  glance  of  tranquil 
sympathy.  Then  she  returned  to  contemplate  the  embers. 

There  she  beheld  the  days  of  her  childhood,  the  chateau 
in  which  she  used  to  pass  long  sad  summers,  the  trim  woods, 
the  damp  and  gloomy  park,  the  pond  with  its  green  stag- 
nant water,  the  marble  nymphs  under  the  chestnut-trees, 
and  the  bench,  on  which  she  used  to  weep  and  long  to 
die.  Even  to-day  she  did  not  know  the  cause  of  her 
youthful  despair,  when  the  tumultuous  awakening  of  her 
imagination  and  a  mysterious  physical  evolution  cast  her 
into  an  agitation  in  which  desires  were  mingled  with  fears. 
As  a  child,  life  had  inspired  her  at  once  with  fear  and 
longing.  And  now  she  knew  that  life  is  not  worth  such 
anxiety  and  such  hope,  that  it  is  a  very  ordinary  matter. 
She  ought  to  have  expected  it.  Why  had  she  not  fore- 
seen it?  She  continued  her  revery. 

"I  used  to  look  at  mama.  She  was  a  good  woman,  very 
simple-minded  but  not  very  happy.  I  dreamed  of  a  lot 
very  different  from  hers.  Why?  I  felt  that  the  atmos- 
phere around  me  was  enervating,  and  I  longed  for  the 
stronger,  salter  air  of  the  future.  Why?  What  did  I  want, 
and  what  did  I  expect?  Had  I  not  warning  enough  of 
the  sadness  of  everything?" 

She  was  born  rich  and  surrounded  by  the  glaring  bril- 
liance of  a  newly  made  fortune.  The  daughter  of  that 
Montessuy,  who,  at  first  a  mere  clerk  in  a  Parisian  bank, 
had  founded  and  directed  two  great  banking  houses,  and 
by  using  all  the  resources  of  an  inventive  mind,  invincible 
strength  of  character,  a  rare  blend  of  cunning  and  hon- 
esty, had  piloted  them  through  a  difficult  crisis,  and  dealt 
with  the  Government  on  an  equal  footing.  She  had  grown 
up  in  the  historic  chateau  of  Joinville,  which,  bought,  re- 
stored, and  magnificently  furnished  by  her  father,  with  its 
park  and  its  extensive  lakes,  had  come  to  equal  Vaux-le- 


THE  RED  LILY  19 

Vicomte  in  splendour.  Montessuy  enjoyed  to  the  full  all 
that  life  had  to  give.  By  instinct  a  pronounced  atheist  he 
was  determined  to  have  every  material  benefit  and  every 
desirable  thing  that  earth  produces.  He  crowded  into  the 
gallery  and  reception  rooms  of  Joinville  pictures  by  the 
great  masters  and  precious  marbles.  At  fifty  he  was  pay- 
ing for  the  luxuries  of  the  most  beautiful  actresses  and 
a  few  women  in  society.  With  all  the  brutality  of  his 
temperament  and  the  keenness  of  his  intelligence  he  enjoyed 
social  life. 

Meanwhile  poor  Madame  Montessuy  was  languishing  at 
Joinville.  Anxious  and  frugal,  she  appeared  poor  and 
diminutive  by  the  side  of  the  twelve  gigantic  caryatides 
which,  around  her  bed  enclosed  by  a  gilded  balustrade,  sup- 
ported the  ceiling  painted  by  Lebrun  with  Titans  pursued 
by  the  thunderbolts  of  Jupiter.  There  one  evening  on 
a  little  iron  bedstead,  put  up  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
state  bed,  she  died  of  sorrow  and  weakness,  her  only  loves 
having  been  her  husband  and  her  little  red  damask  drawing- 
room  in  the  Rue  de  Maubeuge. 

There  had  never  been  any  intimacy  between  mother  and 
daughter.  The  mother  felt  instinctively  that  Therese  had 
nothing  in  common  with  her.  Her  daughter's  intellect  was 
too  capacious,  her  will  too  vigorous.  Although  she  was 
good  and  docile,  there  flowed  in  her  veins  the  strong  blood 
of  Montessuy.  Therese  had  her  father's  ardour  of  soul 
and  body,  an  ardour  from  which  the  mother  had  suffered 
so  bitterly  and  for  which  she  found  it  easier  to  forgive 
the  father  than  the  daughter. 

But  Montessuy  saw  himself  in  his  daughter  and  loved 
her.  Like  all  bon-vivants,  he  had  his  times  of  charming 
gaiety.  Although  he  was  much  away  from  home,  he  man- 
aged to  lunch  with  her  nearly  every  day,  and  sometimes 
he  took  her  out.  He  was  a  connoisseur  in  dress  and 
trinkets.  At  a  glance  he  noticed  and  corrected  in  his  daugh- 
ter's toilet  the  mistakes  made  by  Madame  Montessuy's  bad 
taste.  He  was  educating  and  forming  Therese.  Coarse  yet 
entertaining,  he  amused  her  and  won  her  affection.  In  his 
dealings  even  with  her  he  was  inspired  by  his  instinct, 
his  passion  for  conquest.  He,  who  must  always  win,  was 


2c  THE  RED  LILY 

winnitig  his  daughter.     He  was  capturing  her  from  her 
mother.    Therese  admired  him,  adored  him. 

In  her  revery,  she  saw  him  in  the  background  of  her 
past,  as  the  one  joy  of  her  childhood.  She  was  still  fully 
persuaded  that  there  was  no  more  charming  man  than  her 
father. 

As  soon  as  she  entered  society  she  despaired  of  finding 
elsewhere  such  natural  qualities,  such  fulness  of  strength 
of  body  and  of  mind.  This  disappointment  had  persisted 
when  she  came  to  choose  a  husband,  and  later  when  she 
made  a  secret  and  a  freer  choice. 

She  had  really  not  chosen  her  husband  at  all.  She 
hardly  knew  how,  but  she  had  let  herself  be  married  by 
her  father.  He,  being  a  widower  embarrassed  and  trou 
bled  by  the  responsibility  of  a  daughter  in  the  midst  of 
an  agitated,  busy  life,  had  as  usual  wished  to  act  quickly 
and  well.  He  thought  only  of  external  distinctions  and 
social  conventions;  he  appreciated  the  advantage  of  the 
eighty  years  of  imperial  nobility  offered  by  Count  Martin, 
and  the  hereditary  glory  of  a  family  which  had  provided, 
with  ministers  the  Government  of  July  and  the  Liberal 
Empire.  The  idea  of  his  daughter  finding  love  in  mar- 
riage never  occurred  to  him. 

He  persuaded  himself  that  in  marriage  she  would  find 
the  satisfaction  of  that  desire  for  splendour  with  which 
he  had  inspired  her.  He  hoped  that  she  would  have  the 
joy  of  being  rich  and  appearing  so,  that  she  would  gratify 
the  vulgar  pride,  the  desire  for  material  superiority,  which 
for  him  constituted  the  essence  of  life.  For  the  rest,  he 
had  no  very  definite  ideas  concerning  the  happiness  of 
a  respectable  woman  in  society;  but  he  was  quite  sure  that 
his  daughter  would  always  be  a  respectable  woman.  That 
was  an  innate  conviction;  on  that  point  his  mind  was 
perfectly  at  rest. 

Reflecting  on  that  confidence,  foolish  and  yet  natural, 
which  was  so  contrary  to  Montessuy's  own  experiences  and 
ideas  of  women,  she  smiled  a  smile  of  ironic  melancholy. 
She  admired  her  father  all  the  more  for  being  too  wise 
to  indulge  in  importunate  wisdom. 

After  all,  he  had  not  married  her  so  badly,  according 


THE  RED  LILY  21 

to  the  standards  of  marriage  among  the  leisured  classes. 
Her  husband  was  as  good  as  many  another.  He  had  be- 
come quite  tolerable.  Of  all  the  memories,  which,  in  the 
half-light  of  the  shaded  lamps,  the  embers  recalled  to  her, 
that  of  their  life  in  common  was  the  least  vivid.  All  that 
returned  to  her  were  the  painfully  distinct  recollections  of 
one  or  two  incidents,  some  foolish  imaginings,  an  impression 
vague  and  unpleasant.  That  time  had  not  lasted  long,  and 
had  left  nothing  behind  it.  Now  after  six  years  she  hardly 
remembered  how  she  had  gained  her  liberty,  so  prompt 
and  easy  had  been  that  victory  over  a  husband,  cold,  valetu- 
dinarian, egotistical,  and  polite.  Ambitious,  industrious, 
and  commonplace,  he  had  grown  sere  and  yellow  in  busi- 
ness and  politics.  It  was  only  through  vanity  that  he  loved 
women,  and  he  had  never  loved  his  wife.  Their  separa- 
tion had  been  frank  and  complete.  And  since  then, 
strangers  one  to  the  other,  they  were  both  grateful  for 
their  mutual  deliverance.  She  would  have  regarded  him 
as  a  friend,  had  she  not  found  him  cunning,  sly,  and  too 
artful  in  obtaining  her  signature  when  he  needed  money. 
This  money  he  employed  in  enterprises  prompted  less  by 
cupidity  than  by  a  desire  for  ostentation.  Except  for  this 
the  man  with  whom  she  dined,  lived,  travelled,  and  talked 
every  day  was  nothing  to  her  and  had  no  share  in  her 
life. 

Absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  sitting  chin  in  hand,  be- 
fore the  dead  fire,  like  an  anxious  inquirer  consulting  a 
sibyl,  as  she  reviewed  those  years  of  solitude,  she  beheld 
the  face  of  the  Marquis  of  Re.  It  was  so  clear  and  dis- 
tinct that  she  was  astonished.  Introduced  by  her  father, 
who  was  proud  of  the  acquaintance,  the  Marquis  of  Re 
appeared  tall  and  handsome,  decked  with  the  glories  of 
thirty  years'  private  and  social  triumphs.  He  had  enjoyed 
a  long  series  of  successes.  He  had  seduced  three  genera- 
tions of  women  and  imprinted  on  each  mistress's  heart  an 
imperishable  memory.  His  virile  grace,  his  refined  ele- 
gance and  his  gift  of  pleasing  prolonged  his  youth  far  be- 
yond the  usual  limits.  The  young  Countess  Martin  had 
been  especially  distinguished  by  him.  She  had  been  flat- 
tered by  the  homage  of  such  a  connoisseur.  Even  now  to 


22  THE  RED  LILY 

recollect  it  still  gave  her  pleasure.  He  had  a  wonderful 
gift  in  conversation.  She  had  found  him  entertaining  and 
had  let  him  see  it.  Thenceforth,  light-hearted  hero  that 
he  was,  he  had  determined  to  bring  his  gay  life  to  an 
appropriate  close,  by  possessing  this  young  woman,  whom 
he  admired  more  than  any  one,  and  who  obviously  liked 
him.  To  entrap  her  he  laid  all  a  rake's  most  ingenious  toils. 
But  she  escaped  from  them  very  easily. 

Two  years  later  she  had  become  the  mistress  of  Robert 
Le  Menil,  who,  with  all  the  ardour  of  his  youth  and  all 
the  simplicity  of  his  heart  had  resolved  to  win  her.  "I 
gave  myself  to  him  because  he  loved  me,"  she  told  her- 
self. It  was  true.  It  was  also  true  that  an  unconscious, 
powerful  instinct  had  impelled  her,  and  that  she  had  obeyed 
secret  forces  of  her  nature.  But  these  proceeded  from  her 
subconscious  self;  what  she  had  consciously  done  was  to 
accept  his  love,  because  she  believed  it  to  be  informed  by 
that  sincerity  she  had  always  sought.  She  had  yielded 
directly  she  found  herself  loved  to  the  point  of  suffering. 
She  had  given  herself  quickly,  simply.  He  thought  she  had 
given  herself  lightly.  He  was  mistaken.  The  irreparable 
act  had  brought  on  a  feeling  of  overwhelming  dejection  and 
shame  at  suddenly  having  something  to  hide.  All  the  whis- 
perings she  had  heard  about  women  who  had  lovers  were 
buzzing  in  her  burning  ears.  But,  proud  and  sensitive, 
and  with  perfect  taste,  she  was  careful  to  hide  the  cost 
of  the  gift  she  bestowed  and  to  say  nothing  which  might 
engage  her  lover  to  go  further  than  his  own  feelings  would 
carry  him.  He  never  suspected  that  moral  suffering,  which 
after  all  only  lasted  a  few  days  and  was  succeeded  by 
perfect  tranquillity.  After  three  years  she  approved  of  her 
conduct  as  having  been  innocent  and  natural.  Having  done 
no  one  any  wrong,  she  had  no  regrets.  She  was  content. 
This  relationship  was  her  greatest  happiness.  She  loved, 
she  was  loved.  True  she  had  never  experienced  the  rap- 
ture she  had  dreamed  of.  But  is  it  ever  experienced?  She 
was  the  mistress  of  a  good  honourable  bachelor,  who  was 
much  liked  by  women  and  popular  in  society,  where  he 
was  considered  haughty  and  fastidious;  and  he  loved  her 
sincerely.  The  pleasure  she  gave  him  and  the  joy  of  being 


THE  RED  LILY  23 

beautiful  for  him  were  the  bonds  which  bound  her  to  him. 
He  rendered  her  life,  not  always  rapturously  delightful,  but 
tolerable  and  sometimes  pleasant. 

What  she  had  not  guessed  in  her  solitude  in  spite  of  the 
warning  of  vague  misgivings  and  unaccountable  sadness, 
her  own  inner  nature,  her  temperament,  her  true  vocation, 
he  had  revealed  to  her.  She  learned  to  know  herself  by 
knowing  him.  And  her  self  knowledge  brought  her  some 
pleasant  astonishment.  Their  sympathies  were  neither  of 
the  head  nor  of  the  heart.  She  had  a  simple  definite  liking 
for  him,  which  did  not  wear  out  quickly.  And  at  that  very 
moment  she  took  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  meeting  him 
on  the  morrow,  in  the  little  flat  in  the  Rue  Spontini  which 
had  been  their  rendezvous  for  three  years.  It  was  with 
rather  a  brusque  movement  of  her  head  and  a  more  violent 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  than  one  would  have  expected  from 
so  exquisite  a  lady,  that,  alone  in  the  chimney-corner,  by  9 
dead  fire,  she  said  to  herself:  "Ahl  what  I  want  is  to  b* 
»n  Jove." 


n 

NIGHT  had  already  fallen  when  they  came  out  of  the  little 
entresol  in  the  Rue  Spontini.  Robert  Le  Menil  hailed 
a  passing  cab,  and  looking  anxiously  at  the  man  and  his 
horse,  entered  the  carriage  with  Therese.  Qose  side  by 
side,  they  drove  among  the  vague  shadows  relieved  by  sud- 
den lights,  through  the  phantom  town;  in  their  hearts  there 
were  only  sweet  impressions  now  vanishing  as  rapidly  as 
the  fleeting  lights  shining  through  the  blurred  carriage  win- 
dows. Everything  outside  appeared  to  them  confused  and 
fleeting,  and  in  their  hearts  there  was  a  sweet  calm.  The 
cab  stopped  near  the  Pont  Neuf,  on  the  Quai  des  Augustins. 

They  got  out.  A  dry  cold  invigorated  the  dull  Janu- 
ary day.  Therese  under  her  veil  breathed  with  delight  the 
gusts  of  wind,  which,  crossing  the  river,  swept  the  dust, 
as  bitter  and  white  as  salt,  along  the  hard  ground.  It 
pleased  her  to  walk  freely  among  strange  sights.  She  loved 
to  gaze  upon  that  landscape  of  stone  enveloped  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  atmosphere,  to  walk  briskly  along  the  quay 
where  the  black  gauze-like  branches  of  the  trees  stood  out 
against  the  horizon  reddened  by  the  smoke  of  the  town. 
It  delighted  her,  leaning  over  the  parapet,  to  watch  the 
narrow  arm  of  the  Seine  bearing  its  tragic  waters,  and  to 
drink  in  the  sadness  of  the  river  between  its  low  banks, 
devoid  of  willows  or  beeches.  Already  the  first  stars  were 
twinkling  high  up  in  the  sky. 

"It  looks  as  if  the  wind  would  put  them  out,"  she  said. 

He  remarked  that  they  were  scintillating  brilliantly.  He 
did  not  consider  it  a  sign  of  rain,  as  the  peasants  believe. 
On  the  contrary,  he  had  observed  that  nine  times  out  of 
ten  the  scintillation  of  the  stars  announced  fine  weather. 

Near  the  Petit  Pont  on  their  right  (lit  by  smoky  lamps) 
were  booths  where  old  iron  was  sold.  She  gazed  eagerly 
among  the  dust  and  rust  of  the  wares  displayed.  The  in- 
stinct of  the  curiosity-monger  had  been  aroused  in  her;  she 
turned  the  street  corner  and  ventured  as  far  as  a  lean-to 

24 


THE  RED  LILY  25 

in  which  some  dark  coloured  rags  were  hanging  from  the 
damp  beams  of  the  ceiling.  Behind  the  dirty  windows, 
by  the  light  of  a  candle,  were  to  be  seen  saucepans,  porce- 
lain vases,  a  clarionette,  and  a  bridal  wreath. 

He  could  not  understand  the  pleasure  she  took  in  looking 
at  these  things. 

"You  will  be  covered  with  vermin.  What  can  interest 
you  there?" 

"Everything.  I  am  thinking  of  that  poor  bride  whose 
wreath  lies  under  the  glass  shade.  The  wedding  break- 
fast was  at  Porte  Maillot.  There  was  a  garde  republicain 
in  the  procession.  There  nearly  always  is  in  the  wedding- 
parties  one  sees  in  the  Bois,  on  Saturdays.  Don't  they  ap- 
peal to  you,  my  friend,  all  these  poor  miserable  trifles  which 
in  their  turn  are  sharing  the  greatness  of  the  past?" 

Among  the  odd  chipped  cups  with  flowered  patterns,  she 
discovered  a  little  knife  with  an  ivory  handle  carved  to 
represent  a  long  thin  woman  with  her  hair  dressed  a  la 
Maintenon.  She  bought  it  for  a  few  pence.  She  was  de- 
lighted because  she  possessed  the  fork  to  match.  Le  Menil 
confessed  that  he  did  not  understand  curios.  But  his  aunt 
de  Lannoix  was  quite  a  connoisseur.  She  was  the  talk  of 
all  the  dealers  of  Caen.  She  had  restored  and  furnished 
her  chateau  in  the  old  style.  It  had  once  been  the  country 
house  of  Jean  le  Menil,  councillor  in  the  Rouen  Parliament 
in  1779.  This  house,  which  existed  before  his  time,  was  de- 
scribed in  a  document  of  1690,  as  a  hunting-lodge.  In  a 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  at  the  back  of  white  cupboards, 
protected  by  wire  net-work,  had  been  found  books  collected 
by  Jean  le  Menil.  His  aunt  de  Lannoix,  he  said,  had  wanted 
to  arrange  them,  but  she  had  discovered  among  them  such 
frivolous  works,  with  such  indecent  engravings,  that  she 
had  had  to  burn  them. 

"How  stupid  your  aunt  must  be! "  said  Therese. 

She  had  long  been  bored  by  stories  about  Madame  de 
Lannoix.  In  the  provinces  her  lover  had  a  mother,  sisters, 
aunts,  a  large  family,  whom  she  did  not  know  and  who  irri- 
tated her.  He  used  to  talk  of  them  admiringly,  and  it  an- 
noyed her.  She  grew  impatient  of  his  frequent  visits  to  his 
family,  from  whom  he  returned,  with  a  musty  air,  narrow 


26  THE  RED  LILY 

ideas,  and  sentiments  that  wounded  her.  He  on  his  side  was 
naively  astonished  and  hurt  by  this  antipathy. 

He  was  silent.  The  sight  of  a  tavern  with  windows  all 
aglow  through  the  railings,  suddenly  reminded  him  of  the 
poet  Choulette,  who  was  considered  a  drunkard.  With 
some  irritation  he  asked  Therese  if  she  still  saw  Choulette, 
who  used  to  visit  her  wrapped  in  a  plaid  with  a  red  com- 
forter over  his  ears. 

She  was  vexed  at  his  speaking  of  the  poet  in  the  manner 
of  General  Lariviere.  She  avoided  confessing  that  she  had 
not  seen  him  since  the  autumn  and  that  he  neglected  her 
with  the  indifference  of  a  busy  man  who  did  not  belong  to 
her  circle. 

"I  like  him,"  she  said.  "He  is  witty,  imaginative,  and 
original." 

And  when  he  reproached  her  with  a  taste  for  the  eccentric, 
she  retorted  sharply: 

"I  have  not  a  taste;  I  have  many  tastes.  Surely  you 
don't  condemn  them  all." 

He  did  not  condemn  anything.  He  merely  feared  lest 
she  should  put  herself  in  a  false  position  by  receiving  a 
Bohemian  of  fifty  who  was  out  of  place  in  any  respectable 
house. 

She  objected: 

"Choulette  out  of  place  in  a  respectable  house?  You 
don't  know  then  that  every  year  he  spends  a  month  at  the 
Marchioness  of  Rieu's  .  .  .  yes,  the  Marchioness  of  Rieu, 
a  Catholic,  a  Royalist,  an  old  chouane  as  she  calls  herself. 
But  since  you  are  interested  in  Choulette,  I  will  tell  you  of 
his  latest  adventure.  You  shall  hear  it  just  as  Paul  Vence 
told  it  me.  I  understand  it  better  in  this  street,  where 
there  are  bodices  and  flower-pots  in  the  windows. 

"This  winter,  one  evening  when  it  was  raining,  at  a  spirit- 
bar  in  a  street,  the  name  of  which  I  have  forgotten,  but 
which  must  have  been  as  poor  as  this  one,  Choulette  met  a 
wretched  girl,  whom  the  waiters  at  the  bar  had  turned 
away,  but  whom  he  in  his  humility  loved.  She  was  called 
Maria.  But  even  this  name  was  not  her  own;  she  had  found 
it  on  the  door  plate  at  the  top  of  the  staircase  of  a  fur- 
nished house  where  she  lodged.  Choulette  was  touched  by 


THE  RED  LILY  27 

the  depth  of  her  poverty  and  her  shame.  He  called  her  his 
sister  and  kissed  her  hand.  Since  then  he  has  never  left 
her.  He  takes  her  bare-headed  with  a  shawl  over  her 
shoulders  to  the  cafes  in  the  Latin  quarter,  where  rich 
students  are  reading  reviews.  He  says  sweet  things  to  her. 
He  weeps;  she  weeps.  They  drink;  and,  when  they  have 
drunk,  they  fight.  He  loves  her.  He  calls  her  very  chaste. 
He  says  she  is  his  cross,  his  salvation.  She  was  bare- 
footed; he  has  given  her  a  skein  of  coarse  wool  and  knit- 
ting needles  to  knit  herself  some  stockings.  And  he  himself 
mends  the  poor  girl's  shoes  with  huge  nails.  He  teaches 
her  easy  verses.  He  fears  to  spoil  her  moral  beauty  by  tak- 
ing her  from  the  shame  in  which  she  lives  in  perfect  sim- 
plicity and  admirable  destitution." 

Le  Menil  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  this  Choulette  must  be  mad;  and  these  are  pretty 
stories  that  M.  Paul  Vence  tells  you!  I  am  certainly  not 
strict;  but  there  is  a  kind  of  immorality  which  disgusts  me." 

They  were  paying  no  heed  to  where  they  were  going. 
She  became  absorbed  in  her  reflections: 

"Yes,  morality,  duty,  I  know!  But  how  hard  to  discover 
what  is  duty.  I  assure  you  that  for  three-quarters  of  my 
time  I  do  not  know  where  duty  lies.  It  is  like  the  hedge- 
hog that  belonged  to  our  English  governess  at  Joinville:  we 
used  to  spend  the  whole  evening  looking  for  it  under  the 
furniture;  and  when  we  had  found  it  it  was  time  to  go  to 
bed." 

He  thought  there  was  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  what  she 
said,  more  perhaps  than  she  imagined.  He  often  reflected 
on  it  when  he  was  alone. 

"So  keenly  do  I  realise  it  that  sometimes  I  regret  not 
having  remained  in  the  army.  I  foresee  what  you  are  going 
to  say.  One  vegetates  in  that  profession.  Doubtless,  but 
one  knows  exactly  what  one  has  to  do,  and  that  is  much. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  life  led  by  my  uncle,  General  de  La 
Briche,  is  a  fine  life,  honourable  and  quite  pleasant.  But 
now  that  the  whole  nation  is  merged  in  the  army,  there  are 
neither  officers  nor  soldiers.  It  is  like  a  railway  station  on 
Sunday  when  officials  are  pushing  bewildered  travellers  into 
their  carriages.  My  uncle  de  La  Briche  knew  personally  all 


28  THE  RED  LILY 

the  officers  and  all  the  private  soldiers  of  his  brigade.  He 
still  has  their  names  on  a  great  board  in  his  dining-room. 
From  time  to  time  it  amuses  him  to  read  them  over.  Now- 
adays how  would  it  be  possible  for  an  officer  to  know  his 
men?" 

She  had  stopped  listening  to  him.  She  was  looking  at  a 
corner  of  the  Rue  Galande,  where  there  was  a  woman  selling 
fried  potatoes.  Nestling  behind  a  pane  of  glass,  her  face 
surrounded  by  shadow,  lit  up  by  the  glowing  fire,  she  was 
plunging  her  ladle  into  the  frizzling  fry,  and  bringing  up 
golden  crescents  with  which  she  filled  a  screw  of  common 
yellow  paper.  Meanwhile  an  auburn-haired  girl,  watching 
her  attentively,  was  holding  out  a  penny  in  her  red  hand. 
When  the  girl  had  carried  off  her  packet,  Therese  grew 
envious  and  realised  that  she  was  hungry;  she  insisted  on 
tasting  some  of  the  fried  potatoes.  At  first  he  objected. 

"You  don't  know  what  they  are  fried  with." 

But  in  the  end  he  must  needs  ask  the  woman  for  a  penny 
packet  and  see  that  she  put  some  salt  in  it. 

While  she  was  eating  the  yellow  crescents  with  her  veil 
turned  back,  he  took  her  into  side  streets,  away  from  the 
gas  lamps.  Thus  they  found  themselves  back  again  on  the 
quay,  and  saw  the  black  mass  of  the  cathedral  rising  be- 
yond the  narrow  arm  of  the  river.  The  moon  high  up  over 
the  serrated  ridge  of  the  nave,  shed  a  silver  light  over  the 
slope  of  the  roof. 

"Notre  Dame,"  she  said.  "Look,  it  is  as  heavy  as  an 
elephant  and  as  finely  made  as  an  insect.  The  moon  climbs 
up  it,  looking  at  it  with  the  malice  of  an  ape.  She  is  not 
like  the  country  moon  at  Joinville.  At  Joinville,  I  have 
my  own  path,  a  level  path,  with  the  moon  at  the  end.  She 
is  not  there  every  evening;  but  she  returns  faithfully,  full, 
red,  and  familiar.  She  is  a  country  neighbour,  a  lady  of  the 
district.  Politely  and  with  a  friendly  feeling  I  go  gravely 
to  meet  her ;  but  this  Paris  moon  I  should  not  wish  to  visit. 
She  could  hardly  mix  in  good  society.  Think  what  she  must 
have  seen  during  all  the  time  she  has  been  shining  on  the 
roofs!" 

He  smiled  a  tender  smile.  "Ah!  Your  little  path  down 
which  you  used  to  walk  alone  and  which  you  said  you  loved 


THE  RED  LILY  29 

because  the  sky  was  at  the  end,  not  very  high  and  not  very 
far  above  you,  I  see  it  now  as  if  I  were  there!" 

It  was  at  the  chateau  of  Joinville,  where  he  had  been  in- 
vited to  hunt  by  Montessuy,  that  he  had  first  seen  her,  and 
had  immediately  loved  and  desired  her.  It  was  there  one 
evening,  on  the  border  of  the  little  wood,  that  he  had  told 
her  he  loved  her  and  that  she  had  listened  to  him  in  silence, 
with  a  sad  smile  and  wondering  eyes. 

The  memory  of  that  little  path,  where  she  used  to  walk 
alone  on  those  autumn  nights,  touched  and  agitated  him ;  it 
brought  back  the  enchanted  hours  of  early  desires  and  fear- 
ful hopes.  He  sought  her  hand  in  her  muff,  and  pressed 
her  slight  wrist  under  the  fur. 

A  little  girl  with  violets  on  a  piece  of  flat  basket-work, 
strewn  with  pine  branches,  saw  they  were  lovers,  and  of- 
fered them  her  flowers.  He  bought  a  bunch  for  a  penny 
and  gave  them  to  Therese. 

She  was  walking  towards  the  cathedral  and  thinking:  "It 
is  like  some  gigantic  beast,  a  beast  out  of  the  Apocalypse." 

At  the  other  end  of  the  bridge,  another  flower-seller,  this 
one  wrinkled,  bearded,  grey  and  grimy,  pursued  them  with 
her  basket  of  mimosa  and  Nice  roses.  Therese,  who  was  at 
that  moment  holding  her  violets  in  her  hand,  trying  to 
fasten  them  in  her  coat,  replied  gaily  to  the  old  woman's 
pleading : 

"Thank  you,  I  have  all  I  want." 

"It  is  easy  to  see  you  are  young,"  the  old  woman  said 
gruffly  as  she  turned  away. 

Therese  understood  almost  at  once  and  half  smiled.  They 
passed  into  the  shadow  cast  by  the  cathedral,  in  front  of 
the  crowned  and  sceptred  stone  figures  in  the  niches. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  wish  to.  In  entering  a  church  with  her  he 
felt  vaguely  constrained,  almost  fearful.  He  said  it  was 
closed.  He  thought  it  was,  and  he  hoped  so.  She  pushed 
open  the  door  and  slipped  into  the  immense  nave,  where 
the  lifeless  trees  of  columns  rose  into  the  darkness  above. 
At  the  end  candles  were  moving  before  phantom  priests  and 
the  last  groans  of  the  organ  were  dying  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. She  shuddered  in  the  silence,  and  said: 


30  THE  RED  LILY 

"The  sadness  of  churches  at  night  always  moves  me;  it 
makes  me  feel  the  impressive  mystery  of  annihilation." 

He  replied: 

"But  we  ought  to  believe  in  something.  It  would  be  too 
sad  if  there  were  no  God.  if  our  souls  were  not  immortal." 

For  a  time  she  remained  still  beneath  the  great  curtains 
of  shadow  which  hung  from  the  vault,  then  she  said: 

"My  poor  friend,  we  don't  know  what  to  do  with  this 
short  life,  and  do  you  want  another  which  shall  be  eternal!" 

In  the  carriage  which  took  them  home,  he  said  gaily  that 
he  had  enjoyed  his  day.  He  kissed  her,  pleased  with  her 
and  with  himself.  But  she  did  not  share  his  good  humour. 
That  was  what  generally  happened  between  them.  The  last 
moments  they  passed  together  were  always  spoilt  for  her  by 
the  foreboding  that  he  would  not  say  the  right  word  when 
they  parted.  Usually  he  left  her  abruptly  as  if  for  him 
everything  was  over.  At  each  of  these  separations  she  had 
a  vague  feeling  that  it  was  a  final  parting.  She  suffered  in 
anticipation  and  became  irritable. 

Under  the  trees  of  the  Cours-la-Reine,  he  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it  repeatedly. 

'It  is  rare  to  love  as  we  love,  isn't  it,  Therese?" 

'Rare,  I  don't  know;  but  I  believe  that  you  love  me." 

'And  you?" 

'Yes,  I  love  you." 

'And  you  will  always  love  me?" 

'How  can  one  know?" 

And,  seeing  a  cloud  come  over  her  lover's  face: 

"Would  you  be  happier  with  a  woman  who  would  swear 
to  love  none  but  you  all  her  life?" 

He  remained  anxious  and  looked  sad.  She  was  consider- 
ate, and  completely  reassured  him. 

"You  know,  my  friend,  I  am  not  a  light  woman.  I  am 
serious,  not  like  Princess  Seniavine." 

Almost  at  the  end  of  the  Cours-la-Reine,  they  said  good- 
bye under  the  trees.  He  kept  the  carriage  to  take  him  to 
the  Rue  Royale.  He  was  dining  at  his  club  and  going  to 
the  theatre.  He  had  no  time  to  lose. 

Therese  went  home  on  foot.    When  she  was  in  sight  of 


THE  RED  LILY  31 

the  hill  on  which  the  Trocadero  stands  glistening  like  a  set 
of  diamonds,  she  recalled  the  flower-seller  on  the  Petit- 
Font:  "One  can  see  that  you  are  young";  those  words, 
cast  upon  the  wind  and  the  darkness,  came  back  to  her  no 
longer  as  a  rude  jest  but  with  an  accent  of  sad  foreboding. 
Yes,  she  was  young,  she  was  loved,  and  she  was  discon- 
tented. 


m 

JN  the  middle  of  the  table  was  a  centre-piece  of  flowers 
in  a  basket  of  gilded  bronze.  On  the  basket's  edge, 
among  stars  and  bees  eagles  spread  their  wings,  beneath 
heavy  handles  formed  by  horns  of  plenty.  On  each  side  of 
the  basket  winged  victories  supported  the  flaming  branches 
of  the  candelabra.  This  Empire  epergne  Napoleon  had  in 
1812  presented  to  Count  Martin  de  1'Aisne,  grandfather  of 
the  present  Count  Martin-Belleme.  Martin  de  1'Aisne, 
deputy  in  the  Corps  Legislatif  of  1809,  was  nominated  the 
following  year  member  of  the  commission  of  finance,  for 
which  secret  and  laborious  task  his  industrious,  cautious 
nature  was  well  fitted.  Although  liberal  by  birth  and  in- 
clination, he  pleased  the  Emperor  by  his  diligence  and  hon- 
esty, exact  but  not  importunate.  For  two  years  favours 
rained  upon  him.  In  1813,  he  was  a  member  of  that  mod- 
erate majority  in  favour  of  the  report  in  which  M.  Laine, 
when  it  was  too  late,  taught  the  tottering  Empire  a  lesson 
and  censured  at  once  power  and  misfortune.  On  January 
i,  1814,  he  accompanied  his  colleagues  to  the  Tuileries. 
They  had  a  terrible  reception.  The  Emperor  met  them  with 
a  volley  of  abuse.  Violent  and  melancholy,  in  all  the  horror 
of  his  actual  power  and  his  imminent  ruin,  he  overwhelmed 
them  with  wrath  and  scorn. 

Walking  up  and  down  among  his  terrified  ministers,  as  if 
without  thinking,  he  seized  Count  Martin  by  the  shoulders, 
shook  him  and  dragged  him  across  the  floor,  crying:  "A 
throne,  what  is  a  throne?  Is  it  four  pieces  of  wood  covered 
with  velvet?  No!  A  throne  is  a  man,  and  that  man  is  I! 
You  wanted  to  throw  mud  at  me.  Is  this  the  moment  to 
remonstrate  with  me  when  two  hundred  thousand  Cossacks 
are  crossing  the  frontiers?  Your  M.  Laine  is  a  malicious 
person.  One  does  not  wash  one's  dirty  linen  in  public." 
And  while  his  wrath  was  thus  finding  expression  in  ut- 
terances sublime  or  commonplace,  he  was  wringing  in  his 


THE  RED  LILY  33 

hand  the  embroidered  collar  of  the  deputy  for  the  depart- 
ment of  Aisne.  "The  people  know  me.  They  do  not  know 
you.  I  am  the  chosen  of  the  nation.  You  are  the  obscure 
delegates  of  a  department."  He  prophesied  that  theirs 
would  be  the  fate  of  the  Girondins.  Amidst  the  loud  out- 
bursts of  his  voice  there  sounded  the  clinking  of  his  spurs. 
Count  Martin  trembled  and  stammered  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  Hidden  in  his  house  at  Laon,  it  was  with  trembling 
that  he  called  in  the  Bourbons  after  the  Emperor's  defeat. 
It  was  in  vain  that  two  Restorations,  the  Government  of 
July,  and  the  Second  Empire  covered  his  palpitating  breast 
with  ribbons  and  crosses.  Raised  to  the  highest  offices, 
loaded  with  honours  by  three  kings  and  an  emperor,  he  still 
felt  the  hand  of  the  Corsican  upon  his  shoulder.  He  died  a 
senator  under  Napoleon  III,  leaving  a  son  afflicted  with 
the  hereditary  trembling. 

This  son  had  married  Mademoiselle  Belleme,  daughter 
of  the  First  President  of  the  Court  of  Bourges;  and  with 
her  he  had  espoused  the  political  glory  of  a  family  which 
had  provided  the  limited  monarchy  with  three  ministers. 
The  traditions  of  the  Bellemes,  who  had  been  lawyers  under 
Louis  XV,  corrected  the  Jacobin  past  of  the  Martins.  The 
second  Count  Martin  sat  in  every  assembly  until  his  death 
in  1 88 1.  Charles  Martin-Belleme,  his  son,  had  no  difficulty 
in  getting  elected  to  the  Chamber.  Having  married  Made- 
moiselle Therese  Montessuy,  whose  dowry  provided  him 
with  the  means  of  pushing  his  political  fortunes,  he  dis- 
creetly took  his  place  among  those  four  or  five  titled  and 
rich  bourgeois,  who,  having  rallied  to  the  democracy  and 
the  Republic,  were  received  with  no  ill  grace  by  noted  re- 
publicans, flattered  by  their  aristocratic  names  and  reas- 
sured by  the  mediocrity  of  their  wits. 

In  the  dining-room,  where,  above  the  doors,  in  the 
shadow,  one  now  and  then  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  spotted 
coats  of  the  Oudry  dogs,  opposite  the  epergne  with  its  gilded 
bees  and  stars,  between  the  Victory  candelabra,  Count  Mar- 
tin-Belleme was  doing  the  honours  of  his  table  with  a  some- 
what dejected  grace,  a  melancholy  politeness,  formerly  indi- 
cated at  the  Elysee  to  represent  for  the  benefit  of  a  northern 
court  the  isolation  and  reserve  of  France.  From  time  to 


34  THE  RED  LILY 

time  he  was  addressing  insipid  remarks  on  the  right  to  Ma- 
dame Garain,  the  wife  of  the  former  Keeper  of  the  Seals, 
and  on  the  left  to  Princess  Seniavine,  who,  loaded  with 
diamonds,  was  being  bored  to  death.  Opposite  him,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  epergne,  Countess  Martin,  supported  on 
the  one  hand  by  General  Lariviere,  and  on  the  other  by  M. 
Schmoll  of  the  Academy  of  Inscriptions,  was  languidly  fan- 
ning her  delicately  moulded  shoulders.  On  the  two  sides 
of  the  table  were  M.  Montessuy,  robust  with  blue  eyes  and 
a  high  colour,  a  young  cousin,  Madame  Belleme  de  Saint- 
Norn,  who  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her  long  thin  arms, 
the  painter  Duvicquet,  M.  Daniel  Salomon,  Paul  Vence, 
Deputy  Garain,  M.  Belleme  de  Saint-Nom,  an  obscure 
senator,  and  Dechartre,  who  was  dining  at  the  house  for 
the  first  time.  The  conversation  at  first  was  thin  and  slight ; 
but  it  gradually  grew  more  vivacious,  until  it  became  one 
confused  murmur,  dominated  by  the  voice  of  Garain. 

"Every  false  idea  is  dangerous.  Dreamers  are  thought  to 
be  harmless;  it  is  a  mistake;  they  do  a  great  deal  of  harm. 
Utopias,  apparently  the  most  inoffensive  are  really  injurious. 
They  tend  to  make  one  disgusted  with  reality." 

"But,"  said  Paul  Vence,  "perhaps  reality  is  not  so  per- 
fect, after  all." 

The  Keeper  of  the  Seals  protested  that  he  was  in  favour 
of  every  possible  reform.  And,  without  recalling  that  under 
the  Empire  he  had  demanded  the  abolition  of  a  standing 
army,  and,  in  1880,  the  separation  of  Church  and  State,  he 
declared  that,  faithful  to  his  programme,  he  remained  the 
devoted  servant  of  the  democracy.  His  motto,  he  said,  was 
"Order  and  Progress."  And  he  really  believed  that  he  was 
the  first  to  use  it. 

Montessuy  retorted  with  his  rough  good-nature: 

"Come,  Monsieur  Garain,  now  be  sincere,  and  confess 
that  there  is  not  a  reform  left  to  accomplish,  and  that  the 
most  one  could  do  would  be  to  change  the  colour  of  the 
postage-stamps.  Good  or  bad,  things  are  as  they  must  be. 
Yes,"  he  added,  "they  are  as  they  must  be.  But  they  are 
always  changing.  Since  1870,  the  industrial  and  financial 
condition  of  the  country  has  passed  through  four  or  five 
revolutions  which  economists  had  not  foreseen  and  which 


THE  RED  LILY  35 

they  don't  yet  understand.  In  society,  as  in  nature,  changes 
proceed  from  within." 

In  politics  he  believed  in  views  which  were  short  and 
clear.  Strongly  attached  to  the  present  and  caring  little  for 
the  future,  Socialists  did  not  much  trouble  him.  Without 
considering  whether  the  sun  and  capital  would  endure  for 
ever,  he  enjoyed  them  for  the  time  being.  In  his  opinion  one 
must  let  oneself  drift.  Only  idiots  resisted  the  current,  only 
madmen  anticipated  it. 

But  Count  Martin,  who  was  naturally  melancholy,  had 
gloomy  presentiments.  In  veiled  words  he  indicated  the 
approach  of  catastrophe. 

His  ominous  talk  reached  Monsieur  Schmoll  across  the 
flowers  of  the  centre-piece  and  moved  him;  he  began  to 
groan  and  prophesy.  He  explained  that  Christendom  was 
of  itself  incapable  of  rising  from  barbarism,  and  that  if  it 
had  not  been  for  Jews  and  Arabs,  Europe  would  be  to-day 
what  she  was  in  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  enveloped  in 
ignorance,  wretchedness,  and  cruelty. 

"It  is  only  in  those  historical  manuals  given  to  children 
in  our  schools  to  pervert  their  minds  that  the  Middle  Ages 
have  passed  away.  In  reality  barbarians  are  always  bar- 
barians. Israel's  mission  is  to  instruct  the  nations.  It  was 
Israel,  who  in  the  Middle  Ages,  introduced  into  Europe  the 
wisdom  of  Asia.  Socialism  alarms  you.  It  is  a  Christian 
evil  just  like  monasticism.  And  anarchy?  Don't  you  see 
that  it  is  the  old  Albigensian  and  Vaudois  leprosy?  The 
Jews,  who  educated  and  civilised  Europe,  can  alone  to-day 
save  her  from  that  mischievous  propaganda  which  is  prey- 
ing upon  her.  But  the  Jews  have  failed  to  do  their  duty. 
They  have  become  Christians  among  Christians.  And  God 
is  punishing  them.  He  is  permitting  them  to  be  plundered 
and  driven  into  exile.  Everywhere  anti-semitism  is  mak- 
ing alarming  progress.  In  Russia  my  co-religionists  are 
being  hunted  like  wild  beasts.  In  France  civil  and  military 
offices  are  closed  against  the  Jews.  They  are  no  longer 
admitted  into  aristocratic  circles.  After  having  brilliantly 
passed  his  examinations,  my  young  nephew,  Isaac  Coblentz, 
was  forced  to  renounce  a  diplomatic  career.  When  Ma- 
dame Schmoll  calls  upon  the  wives  of  certain  of  my  col- 


36  THE  RED  LILY 

leagues  they  ostentatiously  open  anti-semite  periodicals 
under  her  very  nose.  And  would  you  believe  that  the  Min- 
ister of  Education  refused  me  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour  for  which  I  asked  him?  There's  ingratitude! 
There's  madness!  Anti-semitism,  you  must  understand, 
means  death  to  European  civilisation." 

There  was  a  naturalness  in  this  little  man  which  surpassed 
the  highest  art.  Grotesque  and  terrible,  his  sincerity  over- 
whelmed every  one.  Madame  Martin,  who  found  him  en- 
tertaining, congratulated  him  on  it. 

"At  least,"  she  said,  "you  defend  your  fellow-believers; 
you,  Monsieur  Schmoll,  are  not  like  a  beautiful  Jewess  I 
know,  who,  having  read  in  a  newspaper  that  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  receiving  the  elite  of  Israelitish  society,  went  about 
complaining  that  she  had  been  insulted." 

"I  am  sure,  Madame,  that  you  are  unaware  of  the  ex- 
cellence of  Jewish  ethics  and  of  their  superiority  to  all 
other  ethical  systems.  Do  you  know  the  parable  of  the 
Three  Rings?" 

This  question  was  lost  in  the  noise  of  the  various  dia- 
logues, discussions  on  foreign  politics,  exhibitions  of  pic- 
tures, fashionable  scandals,  and  academical  speeches.  The 
last  novel  was  discussed  as  well  as  a  new  play  about  to  be 
acted.  It  was  a  comedy  with  an  episode  in  which  Napoleon 
figured. 

The  conversation  centred  round  Napoleon.  He  had 
been  frequently  represented  on  the  stage.  He  had  been 
lately  studied  in  works  widely  read,  where  he  appears  as  an 
object  of  curiosity,  a  popular  character,  no  longer  the  peo- 
ple's hero,  the  military  demi-god  of  the  fatherland,  as  in 
the  days  when  Norvins  and  Beranger,  Charlet  and  Raffet, 
invented  his  legend.  Now  he  was  regarded  as  a  remarkable 
personage,  a  type  entertaining  in  every  one  of  its  most 
intimate  details,  just  the  figure  to  please  artists  and  to  in- 
terest the  idly  curious. 

Garain,  who  had  built  up  his  fortune  on  hatred  of  the 
Empire,  sincerely  believed  this  reaction  in  national  taste  to 
be  nothing  but  an  absurd  infatuation.  He  did  not  consider 
it  dangerous  and  was  not  alarmed  by  it.  He  was  one  of 
those  in  whom  fear  breaks  out  suddenly  and  violently.  For 


THE  RED  LILY  3," 

the  moment,  his  mind  was  at  rest;  for  he  did  not  talk  of 
forbidding  the  representations  of  plays,  nor  of  seizing 
books,  nor  of  imprisoning  authors,  nor  of  suppressing  any- 
thing. Calm  and  severe,  he  regarded  Napoleon  merely  at 
Taine's  condottiere  who  kicked  Volney  in  the  stomach. 

Every  one  had  his  own  definition  of  the  true  Napoleon. 
Count  Martin,  opposite  the  imperial  epergne  and  the  winged 
Victories,  appropriately  described  Napoleon  as  organiser 
and  administrator,  ranking  him  high  as  President  of  the 
Council  of  State,  where  his  words  shed  light  on  many  points 
hitherto  obscure. 

Garain  asserted  that  during  those  unjustly  famous  coun- 
cil meetings,  Napoleon,  saying  that  he  wanted  some  snuff, 
would  ask  the  councillors  for  their  gold  boxes  painted  with 
miniatures  and  adorned  with  diamonds,  which  they  never 
saw  again.  They  ended  by  never  bringing  any  but  leather 
snuff-boxes  to  the  Council.  Mounier's  son  had  told  him  the 
story  himself. 

What  Montessuy  admired  in  Napoleon  was  his  orderly 
mind. 

He  had  a  liking  for  efficiency,  Montessuy  said,  a  taste 
which  has  almost  died  out. 

The  painter  Duvicquet,  who  had  a  painter's  ideas,  was 
puzzled.  On  the  funeral  mask  brought  from  Saint-Helena 
he  failed  to  find  the  features  of  that  handsome  powerful 
face  reproduced  in  medals  and  busts.  Any  one  might  ob- 
serve the  discrepancy  now  that  the  bronze  reproductions 
of  the  mask  no  longer  stored  away  in  attics  were  to  be 
seen  in  all  the  dealers'  shops,  surrounded  by  eagles  and 
sphinxes  of  gilded  wood.  And  in  his  opinion  since  Na- 
poleon's real  force  was  not  Napoleonic,  Napoleon's  real  soul 
might  well  not  be  Napoleonic  either.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
soul  of  a  good  bourgeois;  some  one  had  said  so,  and  he 
was  inclined  to  believe  it.  Besides,  Duvicquet,  who  prided 
himself  on  having  painted  the  century's  portraits,  knew  that 
famous  men  are  quite  different  from  the  popular  estimate  of 
them. 

M.  Daniel  Salomon  observed  that  the  mask  of  which 
Duvicquet  had  spoken,  the  cast  taken  from  the  Emperor's 
countenance  after  death,  and  brought  to  Europe  by  Dr. 


38  THE  RED  LILY 

Antommarchi,  was  first  produced  in  bronze  and  exposed  to 
public  view  under  Louis-Philippe,  in  1833,  and  had  then 
occasioned  surprise  and  incredulity.  This  Italian,  a  quack 
apothecary,  a  chatterer  eager  for  fame,  was  suspected  of 
having  hoaxed  the  public.  The  followers  of  Dr.  Gall,  whose 
system  was  then  in  favour,  doubted  whether  the  mask  were 
genuine.  They  could  not  find  that  it  had  the  protuberances 
which  indicate  genius,  and  the  forehead,  examined  accord- 
ing to  the  master's  theories,  presented  no  extraordinary  for- 
mation. 

"Exactly,"  said  Princess  Seniavine;  "all  that  is  remark- 
able about  Napoleon  is  his  having  kicked  Volney  in  the 
stomach  and  stolen  snuff-boxes  set  with  diamonds.  M. 
Garain  has  just  told  us  so." 

"And  are  we  quite  sure,"  said  Madame  Martin,  "that 
he  was  really  guilty  of  that  kick?" 

"After  all,  everything  is  dubious,"  retorted  the  Princess 
gaily.  "Napoleon  did  nothing;  he  did  not  even  kick  Vol- 
ney, and  he  had  the  head  of  an  idiot." 

General  Lariviere  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  fire  his 
shot.  And  this  was  what  he  said: 

"Napoleon's  campaign  of  1813  has  given  rise  to  much 
criticism." 

The  General's  one  idea  was  to  please  Garain.  Neverthe- 
less he  made  an  effort  and  formulated  a  comprehensive 
opinion : 

"Napoleon  made  mistakes;  and  in  his  position  he  ought 
not  to  have  made  any." 

And,  very  red  in  the  face,  he  stopped  abruptly. 

Madame  Martin  asked: 

"And  you,  Monsieur  Vence,  what  do  you  think  of  Na- 
poleon?" 

"Madame,  these  bloated  soldiers  are  not  to  my  taste;  and 
frankly,  conquerors  always  seem  to  me  to  be  dangerous 
lunatics.  Nevertheless,  the  Emperor  interests  me  as  he  in- 
terests the  public.  He  has  character  and  vitality.  No 
poem  or  novel  of  adventure  is  equal  to  the  Memorial,  writ- 
ten however  in  an  absurd  style.  What  I  really  think  of  Na- 
poleon, if  you  wish  to  know,  if,  that,  having  been  created 
for  glory,  he  appears  in  all  the  brilliant  simplicity  of 


THE  RED  LILY  39 

an  epic  hero.  A  hero  must  be  human.  Napoleon  was 
human." 

These  remarks  were  greeted  with  loud  exclamations. 
But  Paul  Vence  continued: 

"He  was  violent  and  frivolous,  and  thus  profoundly  hu- 
man. By  that  I  mean,  like  other  people.  He  aspired  to 
enjoy  unlimited  power,  which  is  what  the  ordinary  man 
esteems  and  desires.  He  himself  was  possessed  by  the  illu- 
sions with  which  he  inspired  the  people.  They  consti- 
tuted his  strength  and  his  weakness,  and  were  his  chief 
adornment.  He  believed  in  glory.  Concerning  life  and 
society  he  held  about  the  same  opinions  as  one  of  his 
grenadiers.  He  never  lost  that  childish  seriousness  which 
takes  a  delight  in  sword-play  and  the  beating  of  drums,  and 
that  kind  of  innocence  which  makes  good  soldiers.  He  had 
a  sincere  respect  for  force.  He  was  a  man  among  men, 
flesh  of  their  flesh.  He  never  had  a  single  thought  that  did 
not  express  itself  in  action;  and  all  his  actions  were  gran- 
diose and  yet  ordinary.  Heroes  are  the  product  of  this 
vulgar  greatness.  And  Napoleon  is  the  perfect  hero.  His 
brain  never  travelled  more  quickly  than  his  hand,  that 
beautiful  little  hand  which  ground  the  world.  He  never 
for  a  single  moment  cared  about  anything  he  could  not 
realise." 

"Then  you  do  not  consider  him  an  intellectual  genius," 
said  Garain.  "I  agree  with  you." 

"Certainly,"  resumed  Paul  Vence,  "he  had  the  genius 
necessary  to  cut  a  brilliant  figure  in  the  civil  and  military 
arena  of  the  world.  But  he  had  no  speculative  genius. 
That  genius  is  'quite  another  pair  of  cuffs,'  as  Buffon  used 
to  say.  We  possess  the  collection  of  his  writings  and  his 
speeches.  His  style  is  vivacious  and  graphic.  And  in  this 
mass  of  ideas  there  is  not  a  hint  of  any  philosophical  curi- 
osity, of  any  interest  in  the  unknowable,  of  any  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  mystery  of  destiny.  When,  at  Saint-Helena, 
he  talks  of  God  or  the  soul,  he  seems  like  a  good  little  school- 
boy of  fourteen.  His  soul  cast  into  the  world  found  itself 
proportioned  to  the  world  and  embraced  everything.  Not 
a  particle  of  this  soul  was  ever  lost  in  the  infinite.  A  poet, 
he  knew  no  poetry  but  that  of  action.  His  great  dream  of 


40  THE  RED  LILY 

life  was  earth-bound.  In  his  terrible  and  pathetic  puerility 
he  believed  that  man  may  be  great;  and  time  and  misfortune 
never  robbed  him  of  that  illusion.  His  youth,  or  rather  his 
sublime  adolescence,  endured  to  the  end,  because  all  the 
days  of  his  life  were  powerless  to  form  in  him  a  conscious 
maturity.  Such  is  the  abnormal  condition  of  all  men  of 
action.  They  live  entirely  for  the  moment,  and  their  genius 
is  concentrated  on  one  single  point.  They  are  constantly 
renewed,  but  they  do  not  grow.  The  hours  of  their  lives  are 
not  bound  one  to  another  by  a  chain  of  grave  disinterested 
reflection.  They  do  not  develop;  one  condition  merely  suc- 
ceeds another  in  a  series  of  deeds.  Thus  they  have  no 
inner  life.  This  absence  of  any  inner  life  is  particularly 
noticeable  in  Napoleon.  Hence  that  lightness  of  heart  which 
enabled  him  to  bear  easily  the  weight  of  his  misfortunes 
and  mistakes.  His  soul,  ever  new,  was  born  again  every 
morning.  He  possessed  to  the  highest  degree  a  capacity  for 
self-amusement.  The  first  time  he  saw  the  sun  rise  over  his 
gloomy  rock  of  Saint-Helena  he  leapt  from  bed,  whistling 
the  air  of  a  song.  His  was  the  repose  of  a  mind  superior  to 
fortune,  and  above  all  things  the  lightness  of  a  mind  ever 
apt  for  renewal.  He  lived  outside  himself." 

Garain,  to  whom  such  an  ingenious  turn  of  thought  and 
speech  appealed  little,  wished  to  bring  the  discussion  to  a 
conclusion. 

"In  a  word,"  he  said,  "the  man  had  something  of  the 
monster  in  him." 

"Monsters  do  not  exist,"  replied  Paul  Vence.  "And  men 
who  are  said  to  be  monsters  inspire  horror.  Napoleon  was 
loved  by  a  whole  nation.  His  power  lay  in  kindling  love 
in  men's  hearts  wherever  he  passed.  It  was  his  soldiers' 
joy  to  give  up  their  lives  for  him." 

Countess  Martin  would  like  Dechartre  to  have  given  his 
opinion.  But  he  seemed  afraid  to  speak. 

Schmoll  was  still  asking  whether  any  one  knew  the  par- 
able of  the  Three  Rings,  the  sublime  inspiration  of  a  Portu- 
guese Jew. 

Garain,  while  congratulating  Paul  Vence  on  his  brilliant 
paradox,  regretted  that  intellect  should  thus  be  brought  into 
olay  at  the  expense  of  morals  and  justice. 


THti  RED  LILY  41 

"There  is  one  incontrovertible  principle,"  he  said:  "men 
must  be  judged  according  to  their  actions." 

"And  what  about  women?"  asked  Princess  Seniavine 
brusquely;  "do  you  judge  them  according  to  their  actions? 
And  how  do  you  know  what  they  do?" 

The  sound  of  voices  was  mingled  with  the  clear,  bell-like 
ring  of  the  plate.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room  became 
heated  and  loaded  with  vapour.  Drooping  roses  shed  their 
leaves  on  the  table-cloth.  In  the  minds  of  those  assembled 
there  ideas  multiplied: 

General  Lariviere  indulged  in  dreams  of  the  future. 

"When  they  have  done  for  me,"  he  said  to  his  neighbour, 
"I  will  go  and  live  at  Tours,  and  grow  flowers." 

And  he  boasted  of  being  a  good  gardener.  A  rose  had 
been  named  after  him.  He  was  proud  of  it. 

Schmoll  was  still  asking  if  any  one  knew  the  parable  of 
the  Three  Rings. 

Meanwhile  the  Princess  was  teasing  the  deputy. 

"Don't  you  know,  Monsieur  Garain,  that  people  do  iden- 
tical things  for  very  different  reasons?" 

Montessuy  said  she  was  quite  right. 

"It  is  true,  Madame,  as  you  say,  that  actions  prove  noth- 
ing. This  idea  strikes  one  in  an  episode  in  the  life  of  Don 
Juan.  Neither  Moliere  nor  Mozart  was  aware  of  it;  but 
it  is  related  in  an  English  legend,  told  me  by  my  friend, 
James  Lovell,  of  London.  It  relates  how  the  great  seducer 
wasted  his  time  with  three  women:  one  was  a  bourgeoise 
who  loved  her  husband;  another  a  nun  who  refused  to  vio- 
late her  vows;  the  third,  who  had  long  lived  a  life  of  de- 
bauchery, having  become  ugly,  was  servant  in  a  low  lodging- 
house;  after  the  life  she  had  lived,  and  after  what  she  had 
seen,  love  was  nothing  to  her.  The  conduct  of  these  three 
women  was  the  same,  but  for  very  different  reasons.  One 
action  proves  nothing.  It  is  the  mass  of  actions,  their 
weight,  their  sum,  that  constitutes  the  value  of  a  human 
being." 

"Certain  of  our  actions,"  said  Madame  Martin,  "resem- 
ble us;  they  are  like  us.  Others  do  not  resemble  us 
at  all." 

She  rose  and  took  the  General's  arm. 


42  THE  RED  LILY 

As  Garain  was  taking  her  into  the  drawing-room,  the 
Princess  said: 

"Therese  is  right.  .  .  .  Some  of  our  actions  do  not  re- 
semble us  at  all.  They  are  little  negresses  conceived  in  our 
sleep." 

The  tapestry  nymphs  in  their  faded  beauty  smiled  down 
on  the  guests  who  heedlessly  passed  them  by. 

Madame  Martin  poured  out  the  coffee,  assisted  by  her 
young  cousin,  Madame  Belleme  de  Saint-Nom.  She  com- 
plimented Paul  Vence  on  what  he  had  said  at  dinner. 

"You  spoke  of  Napoleon  with  a  freedom  which  is  very 
rare  among  us.  I  have  often  noticed  how  pretty  children 
when  they  are  sulking  resemble  Napoleon  on  the  evening 
of  Waterloo.  And  you  brought  home  to  me  the  cause  of 
that  resemblance." 

Then,  turning  to  Dechartre: 

"Do  you  like  Napoleon?" 

"Madame,  I  do  not  like  the  Revolution.  And  Napoleon 
is  the  Revolution  in  full  military  dress." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  that  at  dinner,  Monsieur  Dechartre? 
But  I  see  you  refuse  to  display  your  wit  except  in  tete-a- 
tete." 

Count  Martin-Belleme  took  the  men  to  the  smoking- 
room.  Paul  Vence  alone  remained  with  the  ladies.  Princess 
Seniavine  asked  him  if  he  had  finished  his  novel  and  what 
it  was  about.  It  was  a  study,  an  attempt  to  arrive  at  truth 
by  means  of  a  logical  sequence  of  appearances  which  become 
cumulative  evidence. 

"By  such  a  method,"  he  said,  "the  novel  acquires  a  moral 
power  which  the  dull  details  of  history  can  never  pos- 
sess." 

She  asked  if  it  would  be  a  book  for  women  to  read.  He 
replied  that  it  would  not. 

"You  make  a  mistake,  Monsieur  Vence,  in  not  writing 
for  women.  It  is  the  only  thing  that  a  superior  man  can  do 
for  them." 

And  when  he  wanted  to  know  how  she  came  by  that  idea: 

"Because,"  she  said,  "I  notice  that  intelligent  women  al- 
ways marry  fools." 

"Who  bore  them." 


THE  RED  LILY  43 

"Certainly!  But  superior  men  would  bore  them  still 
more." 

"They  would  have  greater  chances  of  succeeding." 

"But  tell  me  the  story  of  your  novel." 

"You  insist." 

"I  never  insist." 

"Well!  Here  it  is.  It  is  a  story  of  manners  among  the 
lower  classes.  The  hero  is  a  young  artisan,  serious  and 
chaste,  as  beautiful  as  a  girl,  with  a  soul  innocent  and  re- 
served. He  is  an  engraver  and  does  good  work.  In  the 
evenings  he  studies  at  home  with  his  mother,  to  whom  he  is 
devoted.  He  reads  books.  In  his  simple  unfurnished  mind 
ideas  fix  themselves  as  tightly  as  shots  fired  into  a  wall.  He 
has  few  wants.  He  has  neither  the  passions  nor  the  vices 
which  bind  most  of  us  to  life.  He  is  solitary  and  pure. 
Endowed  with  strong  virtues,  he  becomes  proud  of  them. 
He  lives  among  miserable  wretches.  He  sees  them  suffer. 
He  is  kind,  although  he  is  not  human;  he  possesses  that 
cold  charity  which  is  called  altruism.  He  is  not  human  be- 
cause he  is  not  sensual." 

"Ah!     Must  we  be  sensual  to  be  human?" 

"Certainly,  Madame.  Whilst  tenderness  is  but  skin  deep, 
pity  lies  far  below  the  surface.  This  young  man  is  not 
critical  enough  to  grasp  this.  He  is  too  credulous.  He 
easily  believes  what  he  has  read.  And  he  has  read  that 
universal  happiness  will  be  established  by  the  destruction 
of  society.  He  is  devoured  by  a  thirst  for  martyrdom.  One 
morning,  having  kissed  his  mother,  he  goes  out.  He  lies  in 
wait  for  the  Socialist  deputy  for  his  district,  sees  him,  throws 
himself  upon  him  and  plunges  his  graving-tool  into  his 
stomach,  crying:  'Long  live  anarchy!'  He  is  arrested, 
measured,  photographed,  examined,  tried,  condemned  to 
death  and  guillotined.  That  is  my  novel." 

"It  will  not  be  very  amusing,"  said  the  Princess.  "But 
that  is  not  your  fault;  your  anarchists  are  as  timid  and 
moderate  as  other  Frenchmen.  When  Russians  go  in  for 
anarchy  they  are  more  audacious  and  original." 

Countess  Martin  came  up  to  Paul  Vence  and  asked  him 
if  he  knew  that  very  mild  gentleman  who  said  nothing  and 
looked  about  him  in  the  bewildered  manner  of  a  lost  dog. 


44  THE  RED  LILY 

Her  husband  had  invited  him.  She  did  not  know  him,  nor 
his  name,  nor  anything  about  him.  All  that  Paul  Vence 
knew  was  that  he  was  a  Senator.  He  had  noticed  him  one 
day  in  the  Luxembourg,  in  the  gallery  which  is  used  as  a 
library. 

"I  had  just  been  to  see  the  cupola  painted  by  Delacroix 
with  heroes  and  sages  of  antiquity  in  a  wood  of  blue-green 
myrtles.  He  was  warming  himself  with  a  poor  and  pitiful 
air;  and  his  clothes  smelt  musty.  He  was  talking  to  some 
old  colleagues  and  saying  as  he  rubbed  his  hands:  'In  my 
opinion,  what  proves  that  the  Republic  is  the  best  of  gov- 
ernments, is  that  in  1871,  in  one  week,  it  shot  down  sixty 
thousand  rebels,  without  rendering  itself  unpopular.  Such 
violence  would  have  ruined  any  other  government.'  " 

"Then,"  said  Madame  Martin,  "he  is  quite  a  malicious 
person,  while  I  was  pitying  him  for  his  shyness  and  awk- 
wardness." 

Madame  Garain,  her  chin  resting  softly  on  her  breast, 
was  slumbering  peacefully;  and  her  domestic  soul  was 
dreaming  of  her  kitchen  garden  by  the  Loire,  where  choral 
societies  were  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  pay  their  respects 
to  her. 

Joseph  Schmoll  and  General  Lariviere  came  out  of  the 
smoking-room,  still  smiling  over  the  indecorous  topics  they 
had  been  discussing.  The  General  sat  down  between  Prin- 
cess Seniavine  and  Madame  Martin. 

"This  morning  I  met  the  Baroness  Warburg  in  the  Bois. 
She  was  riding  a  superb  animal.  She  said  to  me:  'General, 
how  do  you  manage  always  to  have  such  fine  horses?'  f 
replied:  'Madame,  in  order  to  have  fine  horses,  one  must 
be  either  very  rich  or  very  shrewd.'  " 

He  was  so  pleased  with  this  retort  that  he  repeated  it 
twice,  winking  the  while. 

Paul  Vence  came  up  to  Countess  Martin: 

"I  know  the  Senator's  name:  it  is  Loyer;  he  is  Vice- 
President  of  a  group  and  author  of  a  propagandist  book,  en- 
titled 'The  Crime  of  December  the  Second.'  " 

The  General  continued: 

"It  was  a  terrible  day.  I  went  into  the  shelter.  There 
I  met  Le  Menil.  I  was  in  a  bad  temper.  I  saw  that  he 


THE  RED  LILY  45 

was  laughing  at  me  in  his  sleeve.  He  thinks  that  because  I 
am  a  general  I  ought  to  like  wind,  hail,  ana  sleet.  But  it  is 
absurd.  He  said  he  did  not  mind  bad  weather,  that  next 
week  he  was  going  to  stay  with  friends  for  the  hunting." 

There  was  a  silence.    The  General  resumed: 

"I  trust  he  may  enjoy  himself;  but  1  don't  envy  him. 
Foxhunting  is  not  amusing." 

"But  it  is  useful,"  said  Montessuy. 

The  General  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"A  fox  never  molests  the  hen-house  except  in  the  spring, 
when  he  is  feeding  his  young." 

"A  fox,"  replied  Montessuy,  "prefers  the  rabbit-warren 
to  the  poultry-yard.  He  is  a  stealthy  poacher  who  injures 
the  farmer  less  than  the  sportsman.  I  know  something 
about  that." 

Therese  seemed  absent-minded;  she  was  not  listening  to 
the  Princess  who  was  addressing  her. 

"He  never  even  told  me  that  he  was  going  away,"  she 
pondered. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking,  my  dear?"  asked  the  Princess. 

"Of  nothing  at  all  interesting." 


IV 

THE  little  room  was  dark  and  silent.  Curtains,  portiere, 
cushions,  bear-skins,  oriental  rugs,  hushed  every  sound. 
Swords,  reflecting  the  fire-light,  glistened  on  the  cretonne 
of  the  walls,  among  targets  and  the  faded  relics  of  three 
winters'  cotillions.  On  the  rosewood  chiffonier  stood  a 
silver  cup,  a  prize  awarded  by  some  sporting  society.  On 
the  painted  porcelain  top  of  the  little  table,  a  horn-shaped 
glass  vase,  over  which  ran  a  gilded  convolvulus,  was  filled 
with  branches  of  white  lilac. 

And  the  shadows  were  everywhere  broken  by  glinting 
lights.  Therese  and  Robert,  their  eyes  accustomed  to  the 
darkness,  moved  freely  amidst  these  familiar  surroundings. 
He  lit  a  cigarette,  while  she  did  her  hair,  standing,  with  her 
back  to  the  fire,  before  the  long  glass,  in  which  she  was 
hardly  able  to  see  herself.  But  she  would  have  neither  lamp 
nor  candles.  For  three  years  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
taking  her  hairpins  from  the  little  cup  of  Bohemian  glass, 
which  stood  on  the  table,  just  within  hand  reach.  He 
watched  her  threading  her  light  fingers  through  her  hair 
which  fell  in  streams  of  yellow  gold.  Meanwhile  her  face, 
hardened  and  bronzed  in  the  shadow,  assumed  a  mysterious, 
almost  an  alarming  expression.  She  did  not  speak. 

He  said  to  her: 

"You  are  no  longer  vexed,  my  love?" 

And  when  he  urged  her  to  reply,  to  say  something: 

"What  would  you  have  me  say,  dear?  I  can  only  repeat 
what  I  told  you  on  my  arrival.  I  think  it  strange  that  I 
should  be  informed  of  your  projects  by  General  Lariviere." 

He  knew  well  that  she  still  bore  him  ill-will,  that  she  had 
been  reserved  and  stiff,  with  none  of  that  self -surrender  that 
generally  made  her  so  delightful.  But  he  pretended  to  be- 
lieve that  her  fit  of  the  sulks  was  nearly  over. 

"My  dear,  I  have  already  explained.  I  told  you  and  I 
repeat  that  when  I  met  Lariviere,  I  had  just  received  a 
letter  from  Caumont,  reminding  me  of  my  promise  to  hunt 

46 


THE  RED  LILY  47 

in  his  woods,  and  I  had  replied  by  return  of  post.  I  was 
intending  to  tell  you  to-day.  I  regret  that  General  Lari- 
viere  anticipated  me;  but  it  really  is  not  important." 

With  her  arms  raised  handle-like  above  her  head,  she 
turned  towards  him  with  a  tranquil  gaze,  that  he  did  not 
understand. 

"So  you  are  going?" 

"Next  week,  Tuesday  or  Wednesday.  I  shall  be  away 
ten  days  at  the  most." 

She  was  putting  on  her  sealskin  toque  in  which  was  stuck 
a  branch  of  mistletoe. 

"It  is  a  matter  that  admits  of  no  delay?" 

"Oh!  no;  the  fox's  fur  will  be  worth  nothing  in  a  month's 
time.  Besides  Caumont  has  invited  some  of  our  common 
friends  whom  my  absence  would  disappoint." 

Sticking  a  long  pin  into  her  toque,  she  knit  her  eye-brows. 

"Is  your  hunting  very  interesting?" 

"Yes,  very,  because  a  fox  plays  all  kinds  of  tricks  which 
you  have  to  thwart.  The  intelligence  of  the  beast  is  won- 
derful. I  have  watched  foxes  hunting  rabbits  at  night. 
They  had  organised  everything  and  had  regular  beaters. 
I  assure  you  it  is  not  easy  to  dislodge  a  fox  from  his  den. 
These  hunting-parties  are  very  gay.  Caumont's  wine  is  ex- 
cellent. That  doesn't  appeal  to  me,  but  it  is  generally  ap- 
preciated. Would  you  believe  it,  one  of  his  farmers  told 
him  that  he  had  learnt  from  a  sorcerer  how  to  tame  a  fox 
with  magic  words?  I  shan't  adopt  that  method,  but  I  prom- 
ise to  bring  you  back  a  dozen  fine  skins." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  with  them?" 

"They  make  very  nice  rugs." 

"Ah!    .    .    .  And  you  will  be  hunting  for  a  week?" 

"Not  quite.  As  I  shall  be  near  Semanville,  I  shall  spend 
two  days  with  my  Aunt  de  Lannoix.  She  is  expecting  me. 
Last  year  at  this  time  she  had  made  up  a  delightful  party. 
There  were  her  two  daughters  and  her  three  nieces  with 
their  husbands;  they  are  all  five  pretty,  gay,  charming,  and 
irreproachable.  At  the  beginning  of  next  month  I  shall 
doubtless  find  them  all  assembled  for  my  Aunt's  birthday; 
and  I  shall  stay  two  days  at  Semanville." 

"Stay  as  long  as  ever  you  like,  dear.     I  should  be  ex- 


48  THE  RED  LILY 

tremely  sorry  if  you  were  to  cut  short  such  a  delightful  visit 
on  my  account." 

"But  you,  Therese,  what  will  you  do?" 

"I?    Oh!    I  shall  be  all  right." 

The  fire  was  dying  down.  The  shadows  thickened.  In  a 
dreamy  tone  with  a  note  of  expectation  she  said: 

"It  is  true  that  it  is  never  very  wise  to  leave  a  woman 
alone." 

He  came  near  her,  trying  to  look  at  her  in  the  darkness. 
He  took  her  hand. 

"You  love  me?" 

"I  assure  you  I  do  not  love  another.    But " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing.  I  am  thinking  ...  I  am  thinking  that,  as 
we  are  parted  the  whole  summer,  and  as,  in  the  winter,  you 
pass  half  your  time  with  your  family  and  your  friends,  if  we 
are  to  meet  so  seldom  it  is  hardly  worth  while  our  meeting 
at  all." 

He  lit  the  candles.  In  the  light  her  face  appeared  hard 
and  frank.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  confidence  proceeding 
less  from  that  self-conceit  common  to  all  lovers  than  from 
his  reliance  upon  a  certain  conventional  propriety.  A  strong 
prejudice  acquired  in  his  youth  and  the  simplicity  of  his 
intelligence  caused  him  to  believe  in  her. 

"Therese,  I  love  you  and  you  love  me,  I  know  it.  Why 
will  you  torment  me?  Sometimes  your  hardness  and  reserve 
are  very  painful." 

She  tossed  her  little  head  brusquely. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  am  bitter  and  self-willed.  It  is  in  my 
blood.  I  inherit  it  from  my  father.  You  know  Joinville; 
you  have  seen  its  chateau,  its  ceilings  by  Lebrun,  its  tapestry 
made  at  Maincy  for  Fouquet;  you  have  seen  its  gardens 
designed  by  Le  Notre,  its  park  and  its  game;  you  said  there 
were  none  finer  in  France;  but  you  did  not  see  my  father's 
workshop,  with  its  deal  table  and  mahogany  desk.  All  the 
rest  originated  there,  my  friend.  On  that  table,  standing  at 
that  desk,  my  father  worked  at  figures  for  forty  years,  first 
in  a  little  room  in  the  Place  de  la  Bastille,  then  in  the  flat 
in  the  Rue  Maubeuge,  where  I  was  born.  We  were  not 
very  rich  then.  I  have  seen  the  little  red  damask  drawing- 


THE  RED  LILY  49 

room,  with  which  my  father  set  up  housekeeping,  and  which 
mama  loved  so  much.  I  am  the  child  of  a  self-made  man  or 
of  a  conqueror,  for  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  We  are 
people  who  have  had  to  make  our  way.  My  father  was 
determined  to  make  money,  to  possess  what  pays,  that  is 
everything.  I  am  determined  to  win  and  to  keep.  What? 
I  don't  know  .  .  .  whether  it  be  the  happiness  I  possess 
...  or  one  that  I  have  not.  In  my  own  way  I  also  am 
greedy,  greedy  of  dreams,  of  illusions.  Oh!  I  know  well 
that  they  are  not  worth  the  effort  one  makes  to  enjoy  them, 
but  it  is  the  effort  itself  that  is  worth  something,  because 
that  effort  is  I,  is  my  life.  I  am  bent  upon  enjoying  what 
I  love,  what  I  thought  I  loved.  I  am  determined  not  to  lose 
it.  I  am  like  papa:  I  stand  upon  my  rights.  And  then  .  .  ." 

She  lowered  her  voice. 

"And  then  I  too  have  senses.  There,  my  dear,  I  am 
boring  you.  I  can't  help  it.  I  ought  never  to  have  sur- 
rendered to  you." 

This  petulance,  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  marred  his 
pleasure.  But  it  did  not  alarm  him.  Extremely  sensitive 
to  her  acts,  he  did  not  care  what  she  said,  and  attached  little 
importance  to  words,  especially  a  woman's.  Himself  a  taci- 
turn person,  he  was  far  from  imagining  that  words  may  also 
be  actions. 

Although  he  loved  her,  or  rather  because  he  loved  her 
ardently  and  trustfully,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  oppose 
whims  that  he  considered  absurd.  When  he  did  not  vex  her 
she  was  pleased  for  him  to  assume  a  masterful  air;  and, 
naively,  he  always  assumed  it. 

"You  know,  Therese,  that  my  one  thought  is  to  please 
you  in  everything.  Don't  be  capricious." 

"And  why  should  I  not  be  capricious?  If  I  gave  myself 
to  you,  it  was  an  act  neither  rational  or  dutiful;  it  was  a 
caprice." 

He  looked  at  her  surprised  and  saddened. 

"The  word  wounds  you,  dear?  Say  that  it  was  love. 
And  really  the  impulse  did  come  from  my  heart;  it  was 
because  I  knew  you  loved  me.  But  love  should  be  a  pleas- 
ure; and  if  I  do  not  find  that  it  satisfies  what  you  call  my 
caprices,  what  really  is  my  desire,  my  life,  my  very  heart, 


50  THE  RED  LILY 

I  will  have  no  more  of  it;  I  prefer  to  live  alone.  You  aston- 
ish me.  My  caprices!  Is  there  anything  else  in  life?  Is 
not  your  hunting  a  caprice?" 

He  replied  very  frankly: 

"If  I  had  not  promised,  I  swear  that  I  would  gladly 
sacrifice  this  little  pleasure  for  your  sake." 

She  knew  that  what  he  said  was  true.  She  knew  how 
exact  he  was  in  keeping  his  word  in  the  most  trifling  mat- 
ters. Always  true  to  his  promises  he  was  minutely  and 
conscientiously  scrupulous  in  the  performance  of  all  his 
social  duties.  She  saw  that  if  she  insisted  he  would  not  go. 
But  it  was  too  late:  she  no  longer  wished  to  gain  that  point. 
Now  all  that  she  sought  was  the  bitter  joy  of  losing  it.  A 
reason  she  really  considered  absurd  she  now  pretended  to 
take  seriously. 

"Ah!  you  promised." 

And  she  affected  to  yield. 

Surprised  at  first,  he  was  soon  secretly  congratulating 
himself  on  having  brought  her  to  reason.  He  was  grateful 
to  her  for  not  having  persisted  in  her  obstinacy.  He  put  his 
arm  round  her,  and,  as  a  reward,  in  a  frank,  friendly  man- 
ner, kissed  her  on  the  eyelids  and  the  nape  of  her  neck. 
He  showed  himself  eager  to  devote  to  her  the  rest  of  his 
days  in  Paris. 

"We  can  meet  three  or  four  times  before  my  departure, 
my  darling,  and  oftener  still,  if  you  like.  I  will  be  here 
ready  for  you  whenever  you  wish  to  come.  Shall  it  be  to- 
morrow?" 

She  took  a  delight  in  saying  that  she  could  return  neither 
to-morrow  nor  the  following  days.  Very  sweetly  she  ex- 
plained what  would  prevent  her  from  coming.  The  obstacles 
appeared  trivial  at  first:  calls  to  be  paid,  a  frock  to  be  fitted, 
a  bazaar,  exhibitions,  hangings  she  wanted  to  see  and  per- 
haps buy.  But  on  examination  these  difficulties  grew  more 
important,  more  numerous:  the  calls  could  not  be  post- 
poned; it  was  not  one  bazaar  but  three  she  had  to  attend; 
the  exhibitions  were  on  the  eve  of  closing;  the  hangings  were 
going  to  America.  In  short,  it  was  quite  impossible  for  her 
to  see  him  again  before  he  started. 

As  it  was  not  like  him  to  be  content  with  such  trivial 


THE  RED  LILY  51 

reasons,  he  perceived  that  neither  was  it  like  Therese  to 
give  them.  Bewildered  by  this  tangle  of  trifling  social  ob- 
ligations, he  did  not  resist,  but  remained  silent  and  unhappy. 

With  her  left  arm  raised  above  her  head,  she  lifted  the 
portiere,  and  with  her  right  hand  turned  the  key  in  the 
lock.  And  there  in  the  sapphire  and  ruby  coloured  folds 
of  the  oriental  curtain,  her  head  turned  towards  the  lover 
she  was  leaving,  she  said  in  tones  half  mocking  but  almost 
tragic: 

"Good-bye,  Robert!  Enjoy  yourself.  My  calls,  my  shop- 
ping, your  visits  are  mere  trifles;  but  it  is  true  that  destiny 
depends  on  such  trifles.  Good-bye." 

She  went  out.  He  would  have  liked  to  go  with  her;  but 
he  deemed  it  unwise  to  be  seen  in  the  street  with  her,  when 
she  did  not  insist  upon  it. 

Outside  Therese  suddenly  felt  alone,  alone  in  the  world, 
without  joy  and  without  sorrow.  As  usual  she  returned 
home  on  foot.  It  was  dark,  the  night  was  cold,  clear,  and 
calm.  But  the  streets  she  followed  in  the  darkness,  broken 
here  and  there  by  lights,  enveloped  her  in  that  tepid  warmth 
of  towns,  which  penetrates  even  through  the  winter's  cold 
and  is  so  grateful  to  town-dwellers.  She  was  passing  be- 
tween lines  of  sheds,  cottages,  and  booths,  remnants  of  the 
rural  days  of  Auteuil,  with  here  and  there  a  high-storied 
house,  displaying  its  coping  stone  in  dismal  isolation.  These 
little  shops  and  monotonous  windows  were  nothing  to  her. 
Nevertheless,  in  some  mysterious  manner  her  surroundings 
seemed  friendly;  and  the  stones  of  the  street,  the  doors  of 
the  houses,  the  lights  high  up  in  the  windows  appeared  to 
her  not  unkind.  She  was  alone,  and  she  wished  to  be  alone. 

The  road  she  was  traversing  between  those  two  dwellings, 
which  were  almost  equally  home-like  to  her,  that  road  she 
had  travelled  so  often,  it  now  seemed  as  if  she  were  passing 
over  for  the  last  time.  Why?  What  had  the  day  brought 
her?  Hardly  a  vexation,  not  even  a  quarrel.  Nevertheless, 
there  hovered  over  its  past  hours  a  faint,  curious,  yet  per- 
sistent suggestion,  a  strange  memory  that  would  cling  to 
that  day  for  ever.  What  had  happened?  Nothing.  And 
that  nothing  effaced  all.  She  had  a  kind  of  sub-conscious 
conviction  that  she  would  never  again  enter  that  room. 


52  THE  RED  LILY 

which  once  contained  all  that  was  dearest  and  most  secret 
in  her  life.  Hers  was  a  serious  relationship.  She  had  given 
herself  gravely  to  realise  a  joy  that  was  necessary  to  her. 
Made  for  love,  and  very  rational,  she  had  not  lost,  in  the 
abandonment  of  her  person,  that  instinct  for  reflection,  that 
aspiration  after  serenity  which  were  very  strong  in  her. 
She  had  not  chosen ;  one  hardly  ever  does.  Neither  had  she 
allowed  herself  to  be  taken  by  chance  or  by  surprise.  She 
had  done  what  she  had  wished  to  do  as  much  as  one  ever 
does  in  such  matters.  She  had  nothing  to  regret.  He  had 
behaved  irreproachably  towards  her.  She  must  in  justice 
admit  it  with  regard  to  a  man  much  sought  after  in  society 
and  having  all  the  women  at  his  feet.  Nevertheless,  in 
spite  of  everything,  she  felt  that  it  was  over  and  that  its 
conclusion  was  quite  natural.  She  was  thinking  with  dull 
melancholy:  "Three  years  of  my  life,  a  good  man  who 
loves  me  and  whom  I  loved,  for  I  did  love  him.  Otherwise 
I  could  not  have  given  myself  to  him.  I  am  not  an  un- 
scrupulous woman."  But  she  could  no  longer  revert  to  the 
sentiments  of  those  days,  the  impulses  of  her  soul  and  of 
her  body.  She  recalled  trivial  quite  insignificant  details:  the 
flowers  on  the  wall  paper,  the  pictures  in  the  room;  it  was  a 
room  in  a  hotel.  She  remembered  the  words  somewhat 
ridiculous  and  yet  almost  touching  that  he  had  said  to  her. 
But  it  seemed  as  if  these  experiences  were  those  of  another 
woman,  some  stranger  whom  she  did  not  much  like  and 
hardly  understood. 

And  what  had  just  happened,  those  caresses  she  had  so 
recently  received,  all  that  was  far  away.  The  couch,  the 
lilac  in  its  glass  vase,  the  little  cup  of  Bohemian  glass  where 
she  kept  her  pins — she  saw  it  all  as  if  gazing  into  the  room 
from  the  street.  She  knew  no  bitterness,  not  even  sadness. 
She  had  nothing  to  pardon,  alas!  That  week's  absence  was 
no  infidelity,  no  wrong  done  her;  it  was  nothing,  that  was 
all.  It  was  the  end.  She  knew  it.  She  wished  it  to  be  the 
end.  She  willed  it  just  as  the  falling  stone  wills  to  fall. 
She  was  obeying  all  the  secret  forces  of  her  being.  She  was 
saying  to  herself:  "There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  love 
him  less.  Do  I  no  longer  love  him?  Have  I  ever  loved 
him?"  She  did  not  know,  and  she  did  not  care  to  know. 


THE  RED  LILY  53 

Three  years  during  which  their  rendezvous  had  been 
twice,  occasionally  four  times  a  week.  There  had  been 
months  when  they  had  met  every  day.  Was  that  nothing? 
But  life  is  no  great  matter.  And  how  little  one  puts  into  it! 

After  all  she  had  no  cause  to  complain.  But  it  was  better 
to  make  an  end  of  it.  All  her  reflections  brought  her  back 
to  that.  It  was  not  a  resolution.  Resolutions  may  be 
changed.  This  was  graver;  it  was  a  mental  and  a  physical 
condition. 

Having  reached  the  square,  with  a  fountain  in  the  middle 
and  on  one  side  a  Gothic  church  with  its  bell  enclosed  in  a 
turret  open  to  the  sky,  she  remembered  the  penny  bunch  of 
violets  he  had  given  her  one  evening  on  the  Petit-Pont,  near 
Notre  Dame.  That  day  they  had  loved  each  other  more 
passionately  than  usual.  Her  heart  softened  as  she  remem- 
bered it.  She  felt  in  her  coat,  but  found  nothing.  In  her 
memory  alone  lived  the  little  nose-gay,  that  poor  little 
skeleton  of  flowers. 

While  she  was  walking  dreamily,  passers-by  followed  her, 
misled  by  the  simplicity  of  her  dress.  One  invited  her  to  a 
restaurant,  to  dine  in  a  private  room  and  then  go  to  a 
theatre.  Far  from  being  embarrassed  by  these  proposals, 
she  was  entertained  by  them.  Her  nerves  v/ere  not  in  the 
least  unstrung  by  the  crisis  she  had  passed  through.  "What 
do  other  women  do?"  she  was  wondering.  "And  I  who  con- 
gratulated myself  on  not  wasting  my  life.  What  is  life 
worth  after  all?" 

When  she  came  within  sight  of  the  Neo-Greek  lantern 
tower  of  the  Museum  of  Religions,  she  found  the  road  up. 
Over  a  deep  ditch,  between  banks  of  black  earth,  heaps  of 
cobbles  and  piles  of  paving  stones,  a  narrow  bending  plank 
had  been  thrown.  She  had  already  begun  to  cross  it  when 
before  her  she  saw  a  man  who  had  stopped  to  let  her  pass. 
He  had  recognised  her  and  was  taking  off  his  hat.  It  was 
Dechartre.  As  she  advanced  she  thought  he  was  pleased 
at  meeting  her,  and  she  thanked  him  with  a  smile.  He 
asked  if  he  might  walk  a  little  way  with  her.  And  together 
they  entered  the  broad  square,  where  the  air  was  keener, 
where  the  tall  houses  were  farther  apart  and  the  sky  could 
be  seen. 


54  THE  RED  LILY 

He  said  he  had  recognised  her  in  the  distance  by  the  out- 
line of  her  figure  and  the  rhythmic  movement  of  her  walk. 

"Graceful  motion,"  he  said,  "is  to  the  eyes  what  music 
is  to  the  ears." 

She  replied  that  she  loved  walking,  that  it  pleased  and 
invigorated  her. 

He  also  liked  to  take  long  walks  in  populous  towns  or  in 
the  beautiful  country.  The  mystery  of  the  road  tempted 
him.  He  loved  travel;  and  even  now,  when  it  had  become 
common  and  easy,  it  still  attracted  him.  He  had  seen 
golden  days  and  transparent  nights  in  Greece,  Egypt,  and 
the  Bosphorus.  But  it  was  always  to  Italy  he  returned  as 
to  the  home  of  his  soul. 

"I  am  going  there  next  week,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  see 
Ravenna  again,  asleep  among  the  dark  pine  trees  of  that 
barren  coast.  Have  you  ever  been  to  Ravenna?  It  is  an 
enchanting  tomb  out  of  which  rise  dazzling  phantoms. 

"There  is  the  magic  of  death.  The  mosaics  of  Saint  Vita- 
lis  and  of  the  two  Saints  Apollinaris,  with  their  barbaric 
angels  and  their  empresses  with  halos  recall  the  delightful 
monsters  of  the  East.  The  tomb  of  Galla  Placidia,  now  that 
it  has  been  robbed  of  its  silver  plates,  looks  terrible  in  its 
crypt,  dark  yet  luminous.  Looking  through  a  crack  in  the 
sarcophagus  it  seems  as  if  one  saw  the  daughter  of  Theo- 
dosius  seated  on  her  golden  chair,  very  straight  in  her  be- 
jewelled gown  embroidered  with  scenes  from  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, her  handsome  cruel  face  hardened  and  blackened  by 
the  aromatic  spices  used  for  embalmment,  and  her  ebony 
hands  motionless  upon  her  knees.  For  thirteen  centuries 
she  remained  in  funereal  majesty,  until  a  child,  passing  with 
a  candle  near  the  opening  in  the  tomb,  burnt  the  body  and 
the  dalmatic." 

Madame  Martin-Belleme  asked  what  had  been  the  life  of 
this  corpse  so  inflexible  in  her  pride. 

"Twice  a  slave,"  said  Dechartre,  "she  became  twice  an 
empress." 

"She  was  beautiful  doubtless,"  said  Madame  Martin. 
"Your  description  of  her  in  her  tomb  is  so  vivid  that  she 
alarms  me.  Will  you  not  go  to  Venice,  Monsieur  De- 
chartre? Or  are  you  tired  of  gondolas,  of  canals  fringed 


THE  RED  LILY  55 

with  palaces,  and  of  the  pigeons  of  Saint  Mark?  I  confess 
that  after  having  visited  Venice  three  times  I  still  love 
her." 

He  agreed  with  her.  He  too  loved  Venice.  Whenever  he 
went  there  he  was  converted  from  a  sculptor  into  a  painter, 
and  he  was  always  sketching.  But  it  was  the  atmosphere 
that  he  would  like  to  paint. 

"Elsewhere,"  he  said,  "even  at  Florence,  the  sky  is  dis- 
tant, high  up,  far  away  in  the  background.  At  Venice  it  is 
everywhere:  it  caresses  earth  and  water;  it  lovingly  en- 
velops leaden  domes  and  marble  fagades  and  casts  its  pearls 
and  its  crystals  into  purple  space.  The  beauty  of  Venice 
consists  in  its  sky  and  its  women.  How  beautiful  are 
Venetian  women  and  of  so  clear  and  pure  a  cast.  How 
slender  and  supple  a  figure  beneath  the  black  shawl.  Were 
nothing  left  of  these  women  but  a  single  bone,  that  bone 
would  suggest  the  charm  of  their  exquisite  form.  On  Sun- 
day, at  church,  they  gather  in  groups,  laughing  and  viva- 
cious, a  medley  of  slim  figures,  graceful  necks,  tender  smiles, 
and  ardent  glances.  And,  with  the  suppleness  of  a  young 
doe,  the  who'e  group  bows  when  a  priest  with  the  head  of  a 
Vitellius,  his  chin  hanging  over  his  chasuble,  passes  bearing 
the  ciborium,  preceded  by  two  choristers." 

He  walked  with  unequal  step  impelled  by  the  flow  of  his 
ideas.  Her  pace  was  more  regular  ana  slightly  more  rapid 
than  his.  And,  looking  at  her  from  the  side,  he  saw  the 
measured  step  and  supple  gait  that  he  loved.  He  noticed 
how  the  determined  motion  of  her  head  every  now  and  then 
made  the  sprig  of  mistletoe  in  her  toque  quiver. 

Without  realising  it  he  was  experiencing  the  charm  of  an 
association  almost  intimate  with  a  young  woman  whom  he 
scarcely  knew. 

They  had  reached  the  place  where  the  broad  avenue  dis- 
plays its  four  rows  of  plane  trees.  They  were  following 
that  stone  parapet  crowned  by  a  box  hedge,  which  happily 
conceals  the  ugliness  of  the  military  buildings  on  the  lower 
side  of  the  quay.  Beyond,  the  river  was  indicated  by  that 
thickness  of  the  atmosphere  which  even  on  days  when  there 
is  no  mist  is  to  be  found  over  the  surface  of  water.  The 
sky  was  clear.  The  lights  of  the  town  mingled  with  the 


56  THE  RED  LILY 

stars.  In  the  south  shone  the  three  golden  nails  of  Orion's 
Belt. 

"Last  year  at  Venice,  every  morning  as  I  went  out,  I  used 
to  see  a  charming  girl,  with  a  small  head,  a  round  and  solid 
neck,  and  well-developed  figure  in  front  of  my  door,  three 
steps  above  the  canal.  There  she  was  in  the  sunshine, 
amidst  vermin,  as  pure  as  an  amphora,  as  captivating  as  a 
flower.  She  smiled.  What  a  mouth!  The  richest  jewel  in 
the  finest  light.  I  perceived  in  time  that  this  smile  was  in- 
tended for  a  butcher  boy,  encamped  behind  me,  with  his 
basket  on  his  head." 

At  the  corner  of  the  short  street  which  leads  down  to  the 
quay,  between  two  rows  of  little  gardens,  Madame  Martin 
slackened  her  pace. 

"It  is  true  that  Venetian  women  are  beautiful." 

"They  are  nearly  all  beautiful,  Madame.  I  speak  of  the 
women  of  the  people,  cigarette  makers,  glass-workers.  The 
others  are  the  same  everywhere." 

"By  the  others,  you  mean  society  women;  and  those  you 
do  not  love?" 

"Society  women?  Oh!  some  are  charming.  But  as  for 
loving  them,  that  is  a  serious  matter." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  abruptly  vanished  round  the 
corner  of  the  street. 


THAT  evening  she  was  dining  alone  with  her  husband. 
There  were  no  winged  victories  or  basket  with  gilded 
eagles  on  the  table  now  reduced  in  size.  The  dogs  of  Oudry 
were  no  longer  illuminated  by  hanging  lights  above  the 
doors.  While  he  was  talking  of  everyday  matters,  she  was 
in  revery  far  away.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  lost  in  a 
fog  and  remote  from  all  things.  It  was  a  placid,  almost  a 
pleasant  kind  of  suffering.  Dimly  as  if  through  a  mist  she 
beheld  the  little  room  in  the  Rue  Spontini  carried  by  black 
angels  on  to  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Himalayas.  And,  in 
an  earthquake  which  seemed  like  the  end  of  the  world,  her 
lover  disappeared  quite  calmly  while  putting  on  his  gloves. 
She  felt  her  pulse  to  see  if  she  was  suffering  from  fever. 
Suddenly  the  clear  tinkling  of  silver  on  the  dinner-wagon 
roused  her.  She  heard  her  husband  saying: 

"My  dear,  in  the  Chamber  to-day  Gavaut  made  an  ex- 
cellent speech  on  the  pension  fund.  It  is  extraordinary  how 
lucid  his  ideas  have  become,  and  how  he  now  always  seizes 
the  point.  He  has  made  great  progress." 

She  could  not  help  smiling: 

"But,  my  dear,  Gavaut  is  a  poor  creature  who  has  never 
thought  of  anything  beyond  rising  from  the  crowd  and  mak- 
ing his  own  way.  His  ideas  are  all  on  the  surface.  Can  it 
be  that  he  is  really  taken  seriously  in  the  political  world? 
Believe  me,  he  has  never  imposed  upon  a  woman,  not  even 
on  his  own  wife.  And  yet  that  kind  of  illusion  can  so  easily 
be  created,  I  assure  you." 

Then  she  added  abruptly: 

"You  know  that  Miss  Bell  has  invited  me  to  spend  a 
month  with  her  at  Fiesole.  I  have  accepted,  I  am  going." 

Less  surprised  than  displeased,  he  asked  with  whom  she 
was  going. 

She  had  the  answer  ready  immediately  and  replied 

"With  Madame  Marmet." 

57 


58  THE  RED  LILY 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  Madame  Marmet  was  a 
very  respectable  companion,  especially  suitable  for  Italy; 
for  her  husband,  Marmet  the  Etruscan,  had  explored  Italian 
tombs.  He  merely  asked: 

"Have  you  told  her?    And  when  do  you  start?" 

"Next  week." 

He  was  prudent  enough  to  offer  no  objection  for  the  mo- 
ment, thinking  that  opposition  would  only  intensify  what 
he  considered  a  whimsical  caprice.  He  remarked  suavely: 

"Travel  is  certainly  very  pleasant.  I  have  been  thinking 
that  in  the  spring  we  might  visit  the  Caucasus  and  the 
country  beyond  the  Caspian.  That  is  a  region  interesting 
and  little  known.  General  Annenkoff  would  place  car- 
riages and  whole  trains  at  our  disposal  on  the  railway  he 
has  constructed.  He  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  he  admires 
you.  He  would  provide  us  with  an  escort  of  Cossacks. 
Such  an  expedition  would  create  an  impression." 

He  insisted  on  appealing  to  her  vanity,  for  he  found  it 
impossible  to  imagine  that  she  was  anything  but  worldly 
minded,  and,  like  himself,  actuated  entirely  by  self  love. 
She  replied  indifferently  that  it  might  be  a  pleasant  trip. 
Then  he  praised  the  mountains,  the  ancient  cities,  the 
bazaars,  the  costumes,  the  weapons  of  the  Caucasus.  He 
added: 

"We  will  take  a  few  friends,  Princess  Seniavine,  General 
Lariviere,  perhaps  Vence  or  Le  Menil." 

She  replied  with  a  dry  little  laugh  that  it  was  rather  soon 
to  decide  whom  they  would  invite. 

He  became  attentive  and  kind. 

"You  are  not  eating.    You  are  losing  your  appetite." 

Although  he  did  not  believe  in  this  sudden  departure,  the 
thought  of  it  disturbed  him.  They  had  both  resumed  their 
liberty;  but  he  did  not  like  to  be  alone.  He  only  felt  him- 
self when  his  wife  was  at  home  and  his  household  was  com- 
plete. Besides,  he  had  decided  to  give  two  or  three  big 
political  dinners  during  the  session.  His  party  was  coming 
to  the  front.  Now  was  the  moment  to  strengthen  his  own 
influence  and  to  shine  before  the  public.  He  said  mys- 
teriously: 

''There  may  come  a  crisis  in  which  we  shall  need  the  sup- 


THE  RED  LILY  59 

port  of  all  our  friends.  You  have  not  been  following  the 
course  of  public  events,  Therese?" 

"No,  my  dear." 

"I  am  sorry.  You  have  sense  and  an  open  mind.  If  you 
had  taken  an  interest  in  politics  you  would  have  observed 
the  growth  of  moderate  opinions.  The  country  is  tired  of 
extremes.  It  will  not  have  men  compromised  by  a  Radical 
policy  and  religious  persecution. 

"A  day  will  come  when  we  shall  have  to  form  another 
Casimir-Perier  ministry,  but  with  new  men,  and  then " 

He  paused.    She  was  barely  listening. 

Sad  and  disillusioned,  she  was  lost  in  revery.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  pretty  woman  who,  not  long  ago,  in  the 
warmth  and  shadow  of  a  darkened  room,  was  standing  bare- 
foot on  a  brown  bearskin  rug,  while  her  lover  kissed  her 
neck,  as  she  twisted  her  hair  before  the  glass,  was  not  her- 
self, was  not  even  a  woman  whom  she  knew  well  or  wished  to 
know,  but  a  lady  whose  affairs  did  not  interest  her.  A 
hairpin,  one  of  those  out  of  the  Bohemian  glass  cup,  fell 
from  her  hair  down  her  neck.  She  shuddered. 

''But  we  must  give  three  or  four  dinners  to  our  political 
friends,"  said  M.  Martin-Belleme.  "We  will  invite  former 
Radicals  as  well  as  members  of  our  own  circle.  We  ought 
to  have  some  pretty  women  too.  We  might  quite  well  invite 
Madame  Berard  de  la  Malle:  it  must  now  be  two  years 
since  anything  was  said  against  her.  What  do  you 
think?"  " 

"But,  my  dear,  I  am  going  next  week." 

He  was  alarmed. 

Together,  both  silent  and  gloomy,  they  went  into  the 
little  drawing-room,  where  Paul  Vence  was  waiting.  He 
often  came  unceremoniously  in  the  evening. 

She  shook  hands. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  I  must  bid  you  farewell  for 
a  short  time.  Paris  is  cold  and  dull.  This  weather  makes 
me  tired  and  sad.  I  am  going  to  spend  six  weeks  at  Flor- 
ence with  Miss  Bell." 

M.  Martin-Belleme  raised  his  eyebrows. 

Vence  asked  whether  she  had  not  already  been  to  Italy 
several  times. 


to  THE  RED  LILY 

"Three  times.  But  I  saw  nothing.  This  time  I  am  de- 
termined to  see,  to  bathe  myself  in  the  life  of  the  country. 
From  Florence  I  shall  make  excursions  into  Tuscany  and 
Umbria.  And  I  shall  end  by  going  to  Venice." 

"You  will  do  well.  Venice  is  the  Sabbath  rest  concluding 
Italy's  great  divine  week  of  creation." 

"Your  friend  Dechartre  has  been  talking  to  me  eloquently 
of  Venice,  of  the  pearl-like  atmosphere  of  Venice." 

"Yes,  at  Venice  the  sky  is  a  painter.  At  Florence  it  is  a 
spirit.  An  old  author  writes:  'The  Florentine  sky  inspires 
men  with  beautiful  ideas.'  I  have  passed  delightful  days  in 
Tuscany.  I  should  like  to  go  there  again." 

"Come  and  see  me  there." 

But  he  murmured  with  a  sigh:  "Newspapers,  reviews, 
one's  daily  work." 

M.  Martin-Belleme  said  that  these  were  weighty  reasons, 
•and  that  the  readers  of  Monsieur  Paul  Vence  enjoyed  his 
books  and  articles  too  much  to  wish  him  to  be  separated 
/rom  his  work. 

"Oh!  as  for  my  books!  .  .  .  One  never  says  anything 
m  a  book  as  one  would  really  like  to  say  it.  It  is  impossible 
to  render  one's  thoughts  exactly!  Yes,  I  know  how  to  talk 
with  my  pen  as  well  as  any  one.  But  talking,  writing,  how 
pitiable!  When  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  how  trivial  are 
those  little  signs  which  form  syllables,  words,  and  phrases. 
Among  such  hieroglyphics  at  once  commonplace  and  bizarre 
what  happens  to  the  idea?  What  does  the  reader  make  of 
my  written  page?  Either  wrong  sense  or  nonsense.  To 
read,  to  understand  is  to  translate.  There  may  be  fine 
translations;  there  are  no  accurate  ones.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter to  me  if  they  admire  my  books,  since  they  always  put 
into  them  what  they  admire?  Every  reader  substitutes  his 
ideas  for  ours.  All  we  do  is  to  tickle  his  imagination.  It  is 
horrible  to  have  to  furnish  material  for  such  a  proceeding. 
Ours  is  an  infamous  profession." 

"You  are  joking,"  said  M.  Martin. 

"I  think  not,"  said  Therese.  "He  is  suffering  because  he 
realises  that  no  soul  can  see  into  another.  He  feels  alone 
when  he  thinks,  alone  when  he  writes.  Whatever  one  does 
one  is  always  alone  in  this  world.  That's  what  he  means. 


THE  RED  LILY  61 

He  is  right.  One  may  be  always  explaining  oneself,  one  is 
never  understood." 

"But  there  are  actions,"  said  Paul  Vence. 

"Don't  you  think,  Monsieur  Vence,  that  they  are  a  kind 
of  hieroglyphics?  Tell  me  about  M.  Choulette.  I  never 
see  him  now." 

Vence  replied  that  for  the  moment  Choulette  was  very 
busy  reforming  the  third  order  of  St.  Francis. 

"The  idea  of  this  work,  madame,  occurred  to  him  in  a 
marvellous  manner,  one  day  when  he  was  visiting  Maria, 
at  her  lodging  in  the  street  behind  the  Hotel  Dieu,  a  street 
which  has  over-hanging  houses  and  is  always  damp.  Maria, 
you  know,  is  the  saint  and  martyr  who  atones  for  the  si  is 
of  the  people.  He  pulled  the  bell-rope  worn  out  by  two 
centuries  of  callers.  The  martyr  was  either  at  the  tavern, 
which  she  frequents  constantly,  or  busy  in  her  room;  she 
did  not  open  the  door.  Choulette  continued  pulling,  and  so 
vigorously  that  the  handle  and  the  rope  remained  in  his 
hand.  Quick  to  conceive  the  symbolism  and  hidden  mean- 
ing of  things,  he  understood  at  once  that  the  rope  had  not 
broken  without  the  interposition  of  supernatural  powers. 
Over  this  incident  he  pondered.  The  hemp  v/as  black  and 
sticky  with  dirt.  He  made  a  girdle  of  it  and  realised  that 
he  had  been  chosen  to  restore  the  third  order  of  St.  Francis 
to  its  primitive  purity.  He  renounced  the  beauty  of  women, 
the  delights  of  poetry,  the  brilliance  of  fame,  to  study  the 
life  and  teaching  of  the  blessed  saint.  Meanwhile  he  has 
sold  his  publisher  a  book  entitled  Les  Blandices,  which,  he 
says,  contains  a  description  of  every  kind  of  love.  He  is 
proud  of  appearing  in  it  as  a  criminal  with  an  air  of  distinc- 
tion. But  this  book  will  in  no  way  interfere  with  his  mysti- 
cal enterprises.  On  the  contrary,  corrected  by  a  subsequent 
work,  it  will  appear  exemplary ;  and  the  gold,  or,  as  he  says, 
the  pieces  of  gold  he  received  for  it,  which  v/ould  not  have 
been  so  many  if  the  work  had  been  more  decent,  will  enable 
him  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Assisi." 

Highly  entertained,  Madame  Martin  inquired  how  much 
truth  there  was  in  the  story.  Vence  replied  that  she  must 
not  ask. 

He  half  admitted  that  he  idealised  the  poet's  history,  and 


62  THE  RED  LILY 

that  the  adventures  he  related  must  not  be  interpreted  in 
their  literal  and  Hebraic  sense.  But  he  maintained  that 
Choulette  was  actually  publishing  Les  Blandices  and  that  he 
wished  to  visit  the  cell  and  tomb  of  St.  Francis. 

"Then,"  cried  Madame  Martin,  "I  will  take  him  to  Italy. 
Monsieur  Vence,  find  him  and  bring  him  here.  I  start  next 
week." 

M.  Martin  regretted  having  to  leave  them;  but  he  had  a 
report  to  finish,  which  must  be  given  in  the  next  day. 

Madame  Martin  said  that  there  was  no  one  who  inter- 
ested her  more  than  Choulette.  Paul  Vence  also  considered 
him  a  singular  type  of  humanity. 

"He  does  not  greatly  differ  from  those  saints  whose  won- 
derful lives  one  reads.  Like  them  he  is  sincere,  with  the 
most  sensitive  feelings  and  terribly  violent  emotions.  If 
many  of  his  actions  shock  us  it  is  because  he  is  weaker, 
less  self-controlled,  or  perhaps  more  closely  observed  than 
the  saints  of  history.  Besides,  there  are  fallen  saints  as 
there  are  fallen  angels.  Choulette  happens  to  be  a  fallen 
saint.  But  his  poems  are  really  spiritual,  and  much  finer 
of  the  kind  than  any  composed  by  the  courtly  bishops  and 
dramatic  poets  of  the  seventeenth  century." 

She  interrupted: 

"While  I  think  of  it,  I  want  to  congratulate  you  on  your 
friend  Dechartre.  He  is  extremely  interesting.  Perhaps  a 
trifle  too  self-centred,"  she  added.  Vence  reminded  her  that 
he  had  always  said  she  would  find  Dechartre  interesting. 

"I  know  him  by  heart;  he  is  a  friend  of  my  childhood." 

"Did  you  know  his  family?" 

"Yes;  he  is  the  only  son  of  Philippe  Dechartre." 

"The  architect?" 

"The  architect.  He  who  under  Napoleon  III  restored 
so  many  castles  and  churches  in  Touraine  and  the  Orleanais. 
He  was  a  man  of  both  taste  and  knowledge.  Although  by 
nature  reserved  and  gentle,  he  was  so  imprudent  as  to  at- 
tack Viollet-le-Duc,  who  was  then  all-powerful.  He  re- 
proached him  with  restoring  buildings  according  to  their 
original  plan  and  making  them  what  they  had  been  or  ought 
to  have  been  in  the  beginning.  Philippe  Dechartre  on  the 
contrary  would  respect  everything  the  centuries  have  gradu- 


THE  RED  LILY  63 

ally  added  to  church,  abbey,  or  chateau.  To  banish  an- 
achronisms and  restore  a  building  to  its  primitive  unity  ap- 
peared to  him  a  barbarism  of  science  as  atrocious  as  that  of 
ignorance.  He  was  always  saying:  It  is  a  crime  to  efface 
what  the  hands  and  souls  of  our  fathers  have  imprinted 
upon  the  stone  throughout  the  ages.  New  stones  cut  in  an 
old  style  are  false  witnesses!  He  would  limit  the  work  of 
the  architect-archaeologist  to  the  strengthening  and  support- 
ing of  the  structure.  He  was  right;  but  no  one  agreed  with 
him.  He  completed  the  failure  of  his  career  by  dying  young 
at  the  height  of  his  rival's  triumphs.  Nevertheless  he  left 
his  widow  and  son  a  modest  fortune.  Jacques  Dechartre 
was  brought  up  by  an  adoring  mother.  No  mother  ever 
loved  her  child  more  passionately.  Jacques  is  a  fine  fellow, 
but  he  is  a  spoilt  child." 

"Nevertheless  he  appears  so  easy-going,  so  indifferent,  so 
detached." 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  His  is  a  mind  in  itself  restless  and 
a  cause  of  unrest  in  others." 

"Does  he  like  women?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  I  am  not  thinking  of  arranging  a  marriage  for  him." 

"Yes,  he  does  like  women.  I  told  you  that  he  is  an  egoist. 
And  on'y  egoists  really  love  women.  After  his  mother's 
death,  for  a  long  while,  he  had  an  affair  with  a  well-known 
actress.  Jeanne  Tancrede." 

Madame  Martin  thought  she  remembered  Jeanne  Tan- 
crede— t.  very  pretty,  but  a  fine  figure,  languidly  graceful 
when  playing  the  part  of  a  woman  in  love. 

"Hut  is  the  woman,"  said  Paul  Vence.  "They  nearly 
always  lived  together  in  a  little  house  in  the  cite  des  Jas- 
mins at  /  uteuil.  I  often  went  to  see  them.  I  used  to  find 
him  lost  in  his  dreams,  forgetting  to  model  a  figure  drying 
beneath  its  linen  covering;  he  would  be  wrapt  in  revery, 
concerned  only  with  his  own  thoughts,  quite  incapable  of 
listening  to  any  one.  She  meanwhile  would  be  studying  her 
parts,  her  checks  burning  with  rouge,  love  in  her  eyes,  pretty 
in  her  intelligence  and  her  energy.  She  used  to  complain 
to  me  that  he  was  absent-minded,  sullen,  irritable.  She 
really  loved  him,  and  never  betrayed  him,  except  to  get  a 


64  THE  RED  LILY 

part.  And  when  she  did  betray  him  it  was  quickly  over, 
and  afterwards  she  thought  no  more  about  it.  She  was  a 
serious-minded  woman.  But  she  allowed  herself  to  be  seen 
with  Joseph  Springer,  and  cultivated  his  society  in  the  hope 
that  he  would  give  her  a  part  at  the  Comedie  Frangaise. 
Dechartre  was  vexed  and  parted  from  her.  Now  she  finds 
it  more  convenient  to  live  with  her  directors,  and  Jacques 
prefers  to  travel." 

"Does  he  regret  her?" 

"How  can  one  know  the  thoughts  of  a  mind  so  restless 
and  so  versatile,  so  eager  to  give  itself,  so  quick  to  take 
back  the  gift,  so  egotistical  and  so  passionate?  He  loves 
with  fervour  whenever  he  finds  the  personification  of  his 
own  ideals." 

She  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"And  what  about  your  novel,  Monsieur  Vence?" 

"I  am  writing  the  last  chapter.  My  poor  little  engraver 
has  been  guillotined.  He  died  with  the  calm  of  a  placid 
virgin  who  has  never  felt  the  warm  breath  of  life  on  her 
lips.  Newspapers  and  the  public  conventionally  approve 
of  the  act  of  justice  which  has  just  been  performed.  But 
in  a  garret  another  artisan,  a  chemist,  serious  and  sad,  is 
swearing  to  avenge  his  brother's  death." 

He  rose  and  took  his  leave. 

She  called  him  back. 

"Monsieur  Vence,  you  know  I  am  in  earnest.  Bring  me 
Choulette." 

When  she  went  up  to  her  room  her  husband  was  waiting 
for  her  on  the  landing.  He  was  wearing  a  reddish-brown 
frieze  dressing-gown  and  a  kind  of  doge's  cap  encircling  his 
pale  hollow  face.  He  looked  grave.  Behind  him,  through 
the  open  door  of  his  study,  appeared  under  the  lamp  a  pile 
of  documents  and  the  open  blue-books  of  the  annual  budget. 
Before  she  entered  her  room  he  signed  that  he  wished  to 
speak  to  her. 

"My  dear,  I  don't  understand  you.  Your  inconsistency 
may  do  you  harm.  Without  motive,  without  even  an  excuse, 
you  abandon  your  home  and  travel  through  Europe,  with 
whom?  With  this  Choulette,  a  Bohemian,  a  drunkard." 


THE  RED  LILY  65 

She  replied  that  she  would  travel  with  Madame  Marmet, 
and  there  was  nothing  unconventional  in  that. 

"But  you  are  telling  every  one  of  your  departure,  and 
you  don't  yet  know  whether  Madame  Marmet  can  go  with 
you." 

"Oh,  dear  Madame  Marmet  can  soon  pack  up  and  go. 
It  would  only  be  her  dog  that  would  detain  her  in  Paris. 
She  will  leave  him  with  you;  you  can  look  after  him." 

"And  does  your  father  know  of  your  plans?" 

When  his  own  authority  was  defied  it  was  always  his  last 
resource  to  invoke  that  of  Montessuy.  He  knew  that  his 
wife  was  afraid  of  displeasing  her  father  and  giving  him  a 
bad  opinion  of  her. 

He  insisted. 

"Your  father  is  full  of  common  sense  and  tact.  I  have 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  myself  in  agreement  with  him 
in  the  advice  I  have  given  you  on  several  occasions.  Like 
me  he  considers  that  a  woman  in  your  position  ought  not  to 
visit  Madame  Meillan.  Her  society  is  very  mixed  and  she 
is  known  to  facilitate  intrigues.  I  must  tell  you  plainly 
that  you  make  a  great  mistake  in  holding  the  opinion  of 
society  of  so  little  account.  I  am  very  much  mistaken  if 
your  father  will  not  consider  it  strange  for  you  to  go  off  in 
this  frivolous  manner.  And  your  absence  will  be  all  the 
more  remarked  because,  permit  me  to  remind  you,  through- 
out this  session  I  have  been  very  much  in  the  public  eye.  In 
this  matter  my  personal  merit  counts  for  nothing.  But,  if 
you  had  been  willing  to  listen  to  me  at  dinner,  I  should 
have  proved  to  you  that  the  political  group  to  which  I  be- 
long is  on  the  verge  of  coming  into  power.  It  is  not  at 
such  a  moment  that  you  should  forsake  your  duties  as  mis- 
tress of  this  house.  You  must  understand  this." 

She  replied: 

"You  are  boring  me." 

And,  turning  her  back  upon  him,  she  shut  herself  in  her 
room. 

In  bed  that  evening,  as  was  her  custom,  she  opened  a  book 
before  falling  asleep.  It  was  a  novel.  Turning  over  its 
pages  haphazard,  she  came  upon  these  lines: 

"Love  is  like  devoutness  in  religion;  it  comes  late.    One 


66  THE  RED  LILY 

is  seldom  either  in  love  or  devout  at  twenty,  unless  one  has 
an  unusual  disposition,  a  kind  of  innate  holiness.  Even 
the  elect  strive  long  with  that  grace  of  loving  which  is  more 
terrible  than  the  lightning  on  the  road  to  Damascus.  A 
woman  does  not  generally  yield  to  the  passion  of  love  until 
age  and  solitude  have  ceased  to  alarm  her.  For  passion 
is  an  arid  desert,  a  burning  Thebaid.  Passion  is  a  secular 
asceticism  as  severe  as  the  asceticism  of  religion. 

"Therefore  a  great  passion  is  as  rare  in  women  as  great 
religious  devotion.  Those  who  know  life  and  society  know 
that  women  do  not  willingly  wear  upon  their  delicate  bodies 
the  hair-shirt  of  a  true  love.  They  know  that  nothing  is 
rarer  than  a  life-long  sacrifice.  And  reflect  how  much  a 
woman  of  the  world  must  sacrifice  when  she  loves:  liberty, 
peace  of  mind,  the  charming  play  of  a  free  imagination, 
coquetry,  amusements,  pleasures,  she  loses  everything. 

"Flirting  is  permitted  to  her.  That  is  consistent  with  all 
the  exigencies  of  a  fashionable  life.  But  not  love.  Love  is 
the  least  worldly  of  the  passions,  the  most  anti-social,  the 
wildest,  the  most  barbarous.  Therefore  the  world  judges  it 
more  severely  than  gallantry  and  than  profligacy.  In  one 
sense  the  world  is  right.  A  Parisian  woman  in  love  belies 
her  nature,  and  fails  to  perform  her  function  which  is,  like 
a  work  of  art,  to  belong  to  us  all.  She  is  a  work  of  art  and 
the  most  marvellous  that  man's  industry  has  ever  produced. 
She  is  an  enchanting  artifice,  resulting  from  the  conjunction 
of  all  the  mechanical  arts  and  all  the  liberal  arts;  she  is 
their  common  production,  and  she  is  the  common  good. 
Her  duty  is  to  show  herself." 

As  Therese  closed  the  book,  she  reflected  that  these  were 
the  dreams  of  novelists  who  did  not  know  life.  She  knew 
well  that  in  reality  there  existed  no  Mount  of  Passion,  no 
hair-shirt  of  love,  no  terrible  yet  beautiful  vocation  against 
which  the  elect  strove  in  vain ;  she  knew  that  love  was  only 
a  brief  intoxication,  which  when  it  passes  leaves  one  a  little 
sorrowful.  And  yet,  if  after  all  she  did  not  know  every- 
thing, if  there  should  be  a  love  in  which  one  might  drown 
oneself  with  delight.  .  .  .  She  put  out  her  lamp.  The 
dreams  of  her  early  youth  returned  to  her  from  the  dim 
background  of  her  past. 


VI 

IT  was  raining.  Through  the  streaming  windows  of  her 
carriage,  Madame  Martin-Belleme  dimly  saw  a  multi- 
tude of  umbrellas  passing  through  the  rain  like  tortoises. 
She  was  dreaming.  Her  thoughts  were  as  misty  and  vague 
as  the  appearance  of  the  streets  and  squares,  rendered  in- 
distinct by  the  rain. 

She  could  not  remember  how  the  idea  had  occurred  to 
her  of  spending  a  month  with  Miss  Bell.  Indeed  she  had 
never  realised  why  she  had  formed  this  resolution.  It  had 
been  a  spring  hidden  in  the  beginning  beneath  a  few  sprigs 
of  water  plantain,  now  it  was  a  deep  and  rapid  stream.  She 
recollected  that  on  Tuesday  evening  at  dinner  she  had  sud- 
denly said  that  she  wanted  to  go,  but  she  could  not  trace 
her  desire  back  to  its  origin.  It  was  not  a  wish  to  act  to- 
wards Robert  Le  Menil  as  he  had  acted  towards  her.  Cer- 
tainly it  seemed  to  her  excellent  that  she  should  be  walking 
in  the  Cascine  while  he  was  hunting.  It  was  pleasant  and 
fitting.  Robert,  who  was  generally  very  pleased  to  see  her 
after  an  absence,  would  not  find  her  when  he  returned.  It 
was  good  and  just  that  he  should  have  to  submit  to  that 
disappointment.  But  she  had  not  thought  of  that  reason 
before  her  decision.  And  since  she  had  seldom  thought  of 
it.  It  was  really  not  the  pleasure  of  making  him  vexed  or 
the  fun  of  a  little  act  of  vengeance  that  was  the  motive  for 
her  departure.  Her  feeling  towards  him  was  not  so  keen  as 
that,  but  harder,  more  serious.  She  was  especially  desirous 
to  postpone  their  meeting.  Without  their  having  come  to 
any  rupture,  he  had  become  a  stranger  to  her.  He  ap- 
peared a  man  like  the  rest,  although  better  than  most  of 
them;  very  good  looking,  with  excellent  manners,  an  esti- 
mable character;  a  man  she  did  not  dislike,  but  who  did  not 
deeply  interest  her.  He  had  suddenly  passed  out  of  her 
life.  How  intimately  he  had  been  associated  with  it  she 
did  not  care  to  recall.  The  idea  of  belonging  to  him  shocked 
her  and  seemed  indecorous.  The  anticipation  of  meeting 

67 


68  THE  RED  LILY 

him  again  in  the  flat  in  the  Rue  Spontini  was  so  painful  that 
she  banished  it  immediately  from  her  mind.  She  preferred 
to  believe  that  their  reunion  would  be  prevented  by  some 
event  unforeseen  but  inevitable,  the  end  of  the  world  for 
example.  The  previous  evening,  at  Madame  de  Morlaine's, 
M.  Lagrange,  of  the  Academy  of  Science,  had  spoken  of  a 
comet.  One  day,  he  said,  coming  from  the  depths  of  the 
firmament,  and  meeting  this  planet,  it  might  envelop  the 
earth  in  its  flaming  tail,  burn  it  in  its  fire,  breathe  into  its 
animals  and  plants  unknown  poisons,  and  slay  the  children 
of  men  who  would  die  in  frantic  laughter  or  pass  away  in 
a  dull  stupor.  Either  that  or  something  of  that  kind  must 
happen  before  next  month.  Thus  her  desire  to  go  away  was 
not  without  an  explanation.  But  why  a  vague  joy  should 
enter  into  her  wish  to  depart,  why  she  should  feel  herself 
already  under  the  charm  of  what  she  was  going  to  see,  that 
she  could  not  understand. 

The  carriage  put  her  down  at  the  corner  of  the  narrow 
Rue  de  la  Chaise. 

There  since  her  husband's  death  lived  Madame  Marmet, 
in  a  small  but  very  neat  flat,  on  the  top  floor  of  a  high 
house.  Her  five  windows  looked  on  a  balcony  and  were 
brightened  by  the  morning  sun.  It  was  her  afternoon  at 
home,  and  the  Countess  Martin  had  come  to  call.  In  the 
modest  highly  polished  salon,  she  found  M.  Lagrange  slum- 
bering in  an  arm-chair  opposite  the  kind  lady,  who  looked 
sweet  and  tranquil  beneath  her  crown  of  white  hair. 

This  old  scholar  and  man  of  the  world  had  always  been 
her  faithful  friend.  On  the  day  after  Marmet's  funeral  it 
was  he  who  had  brought  the  unhappy  widow  Schmoll's 
waspish  oration,  and,  thinking  to  console  her,  had  beheld 
her  consumed  by  grief  and  anger.  She  had  fainted  in  his 
arms.  Madame  Marmet  thought  him  lacking  in  judgment. 
He  was  her  best  friend.  They  often  dined  together  at  the 
tables  of  the  rich. 

Madame  Martin,  tall  and  beautiful,  in  her  sable  furs 
opening  over  a  fall  of  lace,  by  the  sparkling  brilliance  of 
her  grey  eyes,  awoke  the  good  man  who  was  susceptible  to 
feminine  grace.  The  evening  before,  at  Madame  Morlaine's, 
he  had  described  the  end  of  the  world.  He  asked  her 


THE  RED  LILY  69 

whether  she  had  not  been  afraid  when  in  the  night  watches 
there  recurred  to  her  those  pictures  of  the  earth  eaten  up 
by  fire,  or  dead  with  cold  and  white  as  the  moon.  While 
he  was  talking  to  her  with  affected  gallantry,  she  was  look- 
ing at  the  mahogany  book-case,  which  occupied  a  recess  in 
the  drawing-room  wall  opposite  the  windows.  It  contained 
few  books,  but  on  a  lower  shelf  was  a  skeleton  in  armour. 
It  was  strange  to  find  established  in  the  kind  lady's  home 
this  Etruscan  warrior,  wearing  on  his  skull  a  helmet  of 
greenish  bronze  and  on  his  disjointed  body  the  rusty  plates 
of  his  cuirass.  All  unkempt  and  wild  he  slept  among  sweet- 
meat boxes,  gilded  porcelain  vases,  holy  virgins  in  plaster 
and  delicate  souvenirs  of  carved  wood  from  Lucerne  and  the 
Righi.  In  the  poverty  of  her  widowhood,  Madame  Marmet 
had  sold  the  books  with  which  her  husband  worked ;  and  of 
all  the  antiquities  the  archaeologist  had  collected  she  had 
kept  only  the  Etruscan.  Her  friends  had  tried  to  induce 
her  to  get  rid  of  it.  Marmet's  former  colleagues  had  found 
a  purchaser.  Paul  Vence  had  persuaded  the  directors  of  the 
Louvre  to  offer  to  buy  it.  But  the  good  widow  would  not 
sell  it.  She  imagined  that  if  she  were  to  part  with  the 
warrior  in  his  helmet  of  tarnished  bronze  crowned  with  a 
wreath  of  gilded  leaves,  she  would  forfeit  that  name  she 
bore  with  such  dignity  and  cease  to  be  known  as  the  widow 
of  Louis  Marmet  of  the  Academy  of  Inscriptions. 

"Be  assured,  Madame.  The  earth  will  not  come  into  col- 
lision with  a  comet  just  yet.  Such  an  event  is  extremely 
improbable." 

Madame  Martin  replied  that  the  immediate  annihilation 
of  the  earth  and  humanity  would  matter  little  to  her. 

Old  Lagrange  strongly  protested.  He  was  extremely  de- 
sirous that  the  catastrophe  should  be  delayed. 

She  looked  at  him.  On  his  bald  head  there  remained  but 
a  few  tufts  of  hair  dyed  black.  His  eyelids  hung  limply 
over  his  eyes  which  were  still  bright;  his  wrinkled  face  was 
as  yellow  as  parchment,  and  the  hang  of  his  clothes  sug- 
gested a  shrunken  body. 

And  she  thought:    "He  enjoys  life." 

Neither  did  Madame  Marmet  desire  that  the  end  of  the 
world  should  be  near. 


7o  THE  RED  LILY 

"Monsieur  Lagrange,"  said  Madame  Martin,  "don't  you 
live  in  a  pretty  little  house,  with  windows  overhung  by 
wistaria,  looking  on  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes?  It  must  be 
delightful  to  live  in  that  Garden,  which  always  reminds  me 
of  the  Noah's  Arks  of  my  childhood  and  the  Garden  of  Eden 
in  the  old  picture  Bible." 

But  he  did  not  find  the  house  delightful.  It  was  small, 
badly  built,  and  infested  with  rats. 

She  realised  that  every  life  has  its  vexations,  and  that 
everywhere  there  are  rats,  real  or  symbolic,  legions  of  tiny 
creatures  bent  on  tormenting  us.  Nevertheless  she  liked 
the  Jardin  des  Plantes;  she  was  always  wanting  to  go  there, 
but  never  went.  There  was  the  Museum  too  which  she  had 
never  entered  but  was  curious  to  visit. 

Smiling  and  delighted  he  offered  to  do  her  the  honours  of 
the  house.  It  was  his  home.  He  would  show  her  the 
bolides;  there  were  some  very  fine  specimens. 

She  had  no  idea  what  a  bolide  was.  But  she  remembered 
having  been  told  that  in  the  Museum  there  were  reindeers' 
bones  worked  by  primitive  man,  and  pieces  of  ivory  en- 
graved with  pictures  of  animals  long  since  extinct.  She 
asked  if  it  were  true.  Lagrange  had  lost  his  smile.  He  re- 
plied with  sullen  indifference  that  these  matters  concerned 
one  of  his  colleagues. 

"Ah!"  said  Madame  Martin,  "they  are  not  in  your  line." 

She  perceived  that  scholars  lack  curiosity  and  that  it  is 
unwise  to  question  them  about  anything  which  is  not  in 
their  department.  It  is  true  that  thunderbolts  had  made 
Lagrange's  fortune  in  science.  And  that  they  had  led  him 
to  the  study  of  comets.  But  he  was  prudent.  For  twenty 
years  his  chief  occupation  had  been  dining  out. 

When  he  had  gone,  Countess  Martin  told  Madame  Mar- 
met  what  she  had  planned  for  her. 

"Next  week  I  am  going  to  Fiesole,  to  Miss  Bell's,  and 
you  must  come  with  me." 

Kind  Madame  Marmet,  keen  eyed  beneath  her  placid 
brow,  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  she  refused  feebly,  but 
was  entreated  and  at  last  consented. 


VII 

E  Marseilles  express  was  drawn  up  at  the  platform, 
where  porters  were  hurrying  to  and  fro,  pushing  their 
trucks  in  the  smoke  and  the  noise  and  the  blue  light  that  fell 
through  the  glass  of  the  roof.  Before  the  open  carriage 
doors  travellers  in  long  cloaks  came  and  went.  At  the  ex- 
treme end  of  the  station,  half  veiled  by  dust  and  smoke, 
there  appeared,  just  as  if  at  the  end  of  a  telescope,  a  little 
arch  of  sky.  No  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  it  represented 
the  infinitude  of  travel:  Countess  Martin  and  kind  Ma- 
dame Marmet  were  already  seated  in  their  carriage  beneath 
a  rack  loaded  with  bags;  and  newspapers  were  lying  near 
them  on  the  cushions.  Choulette  had  not  come,  and  Ma- 
dame Martin  had  given  him  up.  Nevertheless  he  had 
promised  to  be  at  the  station.  He  had  made  arrangements 
for  his  departure  and  received  the  money  for  Les  Blandices 
from  his  publisher.  One  evening  Paul  Vence  had  brought 
him  to  the  Quai  de  Billy.  He  had  been  gentle,  polite,  wittily 
gay  and  naively  happy.  Since  then  she  had  looked  forward 
with  great  pleasure  to  travelling  with  a  man  of  genius,  so 
original,  so  fascinatingly  ugly,  so  entertainingly  mad,  such 
a  thorough  old  prodigal,  so  abounding  in  natural  vices  and 
yet  so  innocent.  They  were  shutting  the  carriage  doors. 
He  was  evidently  not  coming.  She  had  been  foolish  to  rely 
on  any  one  so  impulsive  and  Bohemian.  Just  as  the  engine 
was  beginning  to  snort,  Madame  Marmet,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  said  calmly: 

"I  think  I  see  M.  Choulette." 

He  was  limping  down  the  platform,  wearing  his  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  which  showed  some  curious  bumps. 
His  beard  was  untrimmed  and  he  was  dragging  an  old 
carpet-bag.  His  aspect  was  almost  terrifying;  and  yet  in 
spite  of  his  fifty  years  he  looked  young;  his  bright  blue 
eyes  shone  clearly  and  there  was  an  ingenuous  audacity  in 
his  furrowed  yellow  face:  for  in  this  dilapidated  old  man 

71 


72  THE  RED  LILY 

there  still  flourished  the  eternal  youth  of  the  poet  and 
the  artist.  As  she  looked  at  him,  Therese  regretted  having 
chosen  so  strange  a  companion.  As  he  walked  down  the 
train  he  cast  into  each  carriage  a  quick  glance  which 
became  gradually  suspicious  and  sinister.  But  when 
he  reached  the  carriage  in  which  the  two  ladies  were, 
and  recognised  Madame  Martin,  he  smiled  so  gracefully 
and  bade  her  good-day  in  such  a  soft  voice,  that  there 
was  no  longer  anything  to  suggest  the  wild  vagabond, 
who  had  been  wandering  on  the  platform,  except  the  old 
carpet-bag  which  he  was  dragging  by  its  half-broken 
handles. 

He  put  it  carefully  in  the  rack  side  by  side  with  the 
trim  bags,  covered  with  grey  linen,  which  made  it  look 
tawdry  and  common,  and  showed  up  its  yellow  flowers  on 
a  ground  of  blood-red. 

Quite  at  his  ease  he  congratulated  Madame  Martin  on 
the  capes  of  her  travelling-coat. 

"Forgive  me,  ladies,"  he  added,  "I  fear  I  am  late.  I 
toent  to  six  o'clock  mass  at  Saint-Severin,  my  parish  church, 
in  the  Lady  Chapel  beneath  those  beautiful  but  incon- 
gruous reed-like  pillars  climbing  heavenwards  like  us  poor 
sinners." 

"So  to-day  you  are  pious,"  said  Madame  Martin. 

And  she  asked  whether  he  had  brought  the  cord  of  the 
order  he  had  founded. 

He  became  sad  and  grave. 

"I  am  afraid,  Madame,  that  M.  Paul  Vence  has  told  you 
some  absurd  tales  on  that  subject.  I  have  heard  that 
he  goes  about  saying  that  my  cord  is  a  bell-rope!  I  should 
be  sorry  to  think  that  any  one  should  for  a  moment  be- 
lieve such  a  wicked  story.  My  cord  is  symbolic.  It  is 
represented  by  a  thread  worn  next  the  skin,  after  having 
been  touched  by  a  poor  person  as  a  sign  that  poverty  is 
holy  and  will  save  the  world.  Goodness  is  impossible  with-, 
out  poverty;  and  since  receiving  the  money  for  my  Blan- 
dices,  I  have  felt  myself  growing  hard  and  unjust.  It  does 
me  good  to  remember  that  I  have  a  few  of  these  mystic 
cords  in  my  bag." 

And,  pointing  to  the  hideous  blood-red  bag: 


THE  RED  LILY  73 

"I  have  also  got  there  a  wafer,  given  me  by  a  bad  priest, 
the  works  of  M.  de  Maistre,  a  few  shirts  and  several  other 
things." 

Madame  Martin,  somewhat  alarmed,  raised  her  eyebrows. 
But  kind  Madame  Marmet  retained  her  accustomed 
placidity. 

Whilst  the  train  was  going  through  the  suburbs,  that  ugly 
black  fringe  of  the  town,  Choulette  took  out  a  pocket-book 
and  began  to  look  in  it.  Beneath  the  vagabond  the  scribe 
was  revealing  himself.  Choulette  was  fond  of  hoarding  doc- 
uments, although  he  did  not  wish  to  appear  to  do  so. 
He  made  sure  that  he  had  lost  nothing,  neither  the  scraps 
of  paper  with  ideas  for  his  poems  jotted  down  in  a  cafe, 
nor  the  dozen  complimentary  letters,  dirty,  finger-marked, 
ragged  at  the  folds,  which  he  always  carried  and  read  at 
night  beneath  the  gas  lamps  to  any  chance  acquaintance 
he  might  happen  to  meet.  Having  seen  that  everything 
was  there  he  took  a  letter  in  an  unsealed  envelope  out  of 
his  pocket-book.  He  fidgeted  with  it  for  some  time  with 
an  air  of  rather  impudent  mystery  and  then  gave  it  to 
the  Countess  Martin.  It  was  a  letter  of  introduction,  given 
him  by  the  Marchioness  of  Rieu,  to  a  princess  of  the 
French  royal  family,  a  very  near  relative  of  the  Comte 
de  Chambord,  who,  old  and  widowed,  lived  in  retirement 
near  the  gates  of  Florence.  Having  enjoyed  the  effect  which 
he  thought  this  letter  must  have  produced,  he  remarked  that 
he  might  perhaps  call  on  the  Princess;  she  was  a  good 
pious  person. 

"She  is  a  real  fine  lady,"  he  added,  "one  who  does  not 
display  her  magnificence  in  her  gowns  and  hats.  She  wears 
her  underclothing  six  weeks  and  sometimes  longer.  The 
noblemen  of  her  suite  have  seen  her  wearing  very  dirty 
white  stockings  hanging  over  her  shoes.  She  revives  the 
virtues  of  the  great  queens  of  Spain.  Those  dirty  stockings 
are  a  true  glory." 

He  took  back  the  letter  and  restored  it  to  his  pocket- 
book.  Then,  having  armed  himself  with  a  horn-handled 
knife,  he  began  to  carve  a  figure  already  half  finished  on 
the  handle  of  his  walking  stick.  Meanwhile  he  was  pro- 
nouncing a  eulogy  on  himself. 


74  THE  RED  LILY 

"I  am  skilled  in  all  the  arts  of  beggars  and  vagabonds.  I 
know  how  to  open  locks  with  a  nail  and  carve  wood  with 
a  cheap  clasp-knife." 

The  head  was  beginning  to  be  defined.  It  was  the  thin 
face  of  a  woman  weeping. 

Choulette  meant  it  to  express  human  suffering,  not  in 
its  touching  simplicity  as  in  an  earlier  civilisation  when 
barbarism  was  mingled  with  goodness,  nor  painted  and 
hideous  with  that  ugliness  into  which  it  had  been  degraded 
by  the  middle-class  freethinkers  and  the  militarist  patriots, 
the  children  of  the  French  Revolution.  In  his  opinion  the 
present  government  was  the  personification  of  hypocrisy 
and  brutality. 

"Barracks  are  a  horrible  invention  of  modern  times. 
They  originate  in  the  seventeenth  century.  Formerly  there 
was  nothing  but  the  guard-house,  where  veterans  played 
cards  and  told  fairy  stories.  Louis  XIV  is  the  precursor  of 
the  Convention  and  of  Bonaparte.  But  the  evil  has  come 
to  a  head  in  the  monstrous  institution  of  universal  mili- 
tary service.  To  have  forced  men  to  kill  each  other  is 
the  disgrace  of  emperors  and  republics,  the  crime  of  crimes. 
In  the  so-called  barbarous  ages,  cities  and  princes  en- 
trusted their  defence  to  mercenaries  who  made  war  delib- 
erately and  prudently;  in  some  great  battles  there  were 
only  five  or  six  slain.  And  when  the  knights  engaged 
in  war  they  were  not  forced  to  it;  they  were  killed  of  their 
own  free  will.  It  is  true  they  were  good  for  nothing  else. 
In  the  days  of  Saint  Louis  no  one  would  have  dreamt  of 
sending  a  man  of  learning  and  intelligence  into  battle. 
Neither  was  the  labourer  dragged  from  his  plough  and 
forced  to  join  the  army.  Now  it  is  considered  the  duty 
of  a  poor  peasant  to  serve  as  a  soldier.  Now  he  is  driven 
from  his  home  with  its  chimneys  smoking  in  the  golden 
evening  light,  from  the  fat  meadows  where  his  oxen  are 
grazing,  from  his  cornfields  and  ancestral  woods.  In  the 
court-yard  of  some  miserable  barracks  he  is  taught  how  to 
kill  men  methodically;  he  is  threatened,  insulted,  impris- 
oned; he  is  told  that  it  is  an  honour,  and  if  he  desire  no 
such  honour,  he  is  shot.  He  obeys,  because,  like  all  the 
gentlest,  gayest,  and  most  docile  domestic  animals,  he  is 


THE  RED  LILY  75 

afraid.  We  in  France  are  soldiers  and  we  are  citizens.  Our 
citizenship  is  another  occasion  for  pride!  For  the  poor 
it  consists  in  supporting  and  maintaining  the  rich  in  their 
power  and  their  idleness.  At  this  task  they  must  labour  in 
the  face  of  the  majestic  equality  of  the  laws,  which  forbid 
rich  and  poor  alike  to  sleep  under  the  bridges,  to  beg  in 
the  streets,  and  to  steal  their  bread.  This  equality  is  one 
of  the  benefits  of  the  Revolution.  Why,  that  revolution 
was  effected  by  madmen  and  idiots  for  the  benefit  of  those 
who  had  acquired  the  wealth  of  the  crown.  It  resulted 
in  the  enrichment  of  cunning  peasants  and  money-lending 
bourgeois.  In  the  name  of  equality  it  founded  the  empire 
of  wealth.  It  delivered  France  to  those  moneyed  classes 
who  have  been  devouring  her  for  a  century.  Now  they 
are  our  lords  and  masters.  The  so-called  government,  com- 
posed of  poor  creatures,  pitiable,  miserable,  impoverished, 
and  complaining,  is  in  the  pay  of  financiers.  Throughout 
the  last  hundred  years  any  one  caring  for  the  poor  in 
this  plague-stricken  country  has  been  held  a  traitor  to 
society.  And  you  are  considered  dangerous  if  you  assert 
that  there  are  those  who  suffer  poverty.  There  are  even 
laws  against  indignation  and  pity.  But  what  I  am  saying 
now  cannot  be  printed." 

While  Choulette  was  growing  animated  and  brandishing 
his  knife,  they  were  passing  fields  of  brown  earth,  clumps 
of  purple  trees  that  winter  had  robbed  of  their  leaves, 
and  curtains  of  poplars  on  the  banks  of  silver  rivers,  lying 
in  the  winter  sunshine. 

He  looked  pathetically  at  the  figure  carved  upon  his 
stick. 

"There  you  are,"  he  said,  "poor  Humanity,  emaciated 
and  in  tears,  stupefied  by  shame  and  poverty,  such  as  you 
have  been  made  by  your  masters,  the  soldier  and  the 
plutocrat." 

Kind  Madame  Marmet,  whose  nephew  was  a  captain  of 
artillery,  a  charming  young  man,  strongly  attached  to  his 
profession,  was  shocked  by  the  violence  of  Choulette's 
attack  upon  the  army.  Madame  Martin  regarded  it  as  an 
amusing  caprice.  Choulette's  ideas  did  not  alarm  her.  She 
was  afraid  of  nothing.  But  she  thought  them  rather  ab- 


76  THE  RED  LILY 

surd;  she  could  not  conceive  that  the  past  could  ever  have 
been  better  than  the  present. 

"I  believe,  Monsieur  Choulette,  that  men  have  always 
been  what  they  are  to-day,  selfish,  violent,  greedy,  and 
pitiless.  I  believe  that  the  unfortunate  have  always  been 
harshly  and  cruelly  treated  by  laws  and  customs." 

Between  La  Roche  and  Dijon,  they  lunched  in  the 
restaurant-car,  and  then  left  Choulette  there  alone  with 
his  pipe,  his  glass  of  Benedictine,  and  his  vexed  soul. 

When  they  had  returned  to  their  carriage,  Madame  Mar- 
met  talked  with  tranquil  affection  of  her  dead  husband. 
Theirs  was  a  love  match.  He  had  written  her  beautiful 
verses,  which  she  kept  and  showed  to  no  one.  He  was 
vivacious  and  gay.  No  one  would  have  believed  it  pos- 
sible that  he  would  ever  succumb  to  overwork  and  dis- 
ease. He  had  laboured  till  the  very  last.  Suffering  from 
an  enlarged  heart,  he  could  never  lie  down,  and  used  to 
pass  the  night  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  books  on  a  table 
at  his  side.  Only  two  hours  before  his  death  he  made 
an  effort  to  read.  He  was  kind  and  affectionate.  His  suf- 
ferings never  rendered  him  irritable. 

For  lack  of  anything  better,  Madame  Martin  said: 

"You  have  the  memory  of  long  years  of  happiness,  and 
in  this  world  that  is  to  have  a  share  of  good  fortune." 

But  Madame  Marmet  sighed;  and  a  cloud  over- 
shadowed her  tranquil  brow. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "Louis  was  the  best  of  men  and  the 
best  of  husbands.  Nevertheless,  he  made  me  very  unhappy. 
He  had  only  one  fault,  but  I  suffered  bitterly  from  it.  He 
was  jealous.  He  who  was  otherwise  so  kind,  so  affectionate, 
and  so  noble-minded  was  rendered  unjust,  tyrannical,  and 
violent  by  that  hateful  passion.  I  can  assure  you  that  my 
conduct  gave  no  ground  for  suspicion.  I  was  not  a  co- 
quette. But  I  was  young  and  fresh-looking;  I  was  con- 
sidered almost  pretty.  That  was  enough.  He  forbade  me 
to  go  out  alone  or  receive  callers  in  his  absence.  When 
we  went  to  a  ball  together,  I  trembled  in  anticipation  of 
the  scene  he  would  make  in  the  carriage  on  our  way 
home." 

And  kind  Madame  Marmet  added  with  a  sigh; 


THE  RED  LILY  77 

"It  is  true  that  I  loved  dancing.  But  I  was  obliged  to 
give  it  up.  It  pained  him  too  much." 

Countess  Martin  did  not  conceal  her  surprise.  She  had 
always  regarded  Marmet  as  a  shy  self-absorbed  old  gentle- 
man, appearing  rather  ridiculous  between  his  corpulent  wife, 
with  her  white  hair  and  her  sweet  temper,  and  the  skele- 
ton of  his  Etruscan  warrior  in  its  gilded  bronze  helmet. 
But  the  excellent  widow  confided  to  her  that  when  he 
was  fifty-five  and  she  fifty-three,  Louis  was  as  jealous 
as  in  the  early  days  of  their  married  life. 

Therese  remembered  that  Robert  had  never  troubled 
her  by  his  jealousy.  Was  it  a  proof  of  his  tact  and  good 
taste  or  had  he  never  loved  her  enough  to  be  jealous?  She 
did  not  know  and  she  had  not  the  courage  to  inquire.  It 
would  have  involved  searching  in  those  secret  chambers 
of  her  heart  which  she  had  decided  never  to  open  again. 

She  murmured  almost  involuntarily: 

"We  want  to  be  loved;  and  when  we  are  loved  we  are 
either  tormented  or  bored." 

They  closed  the  day  with  reading  and  meditation.  Chou- 
lette  had  not  reappeared.  Night  was  gradually  casting  a 
grey  veil  over  the  mulberry  trees  of  Dauphine.  Madame 
Marmet  slept  peacefully,  her  head  resting  on  her  breast 
as  if  on  a  pillow.  Therese  looked  at  her  and  thought: 

"She  is  happy  indeed  if  she  can  take  delight  in  recalling 
the  past." 

The  sadness  of  the  night  seemed  to  enter  into  her  heart. 
And  when  the  moon  rose  over  the  olive  fields,  as  she  gazed 
upon  the  soft  outline  of  plains  and  hills  and  the  fleeting 
blue  shadows,  surrounded  by  a  landscape  in  which  every- 
thing suggested  peace  and  oblivion,  Therese  longed  for  the 
Seine,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  with  its  radiating  avenues,  and 
the  glades  of  the  Bois,  where  at  least  the  trees  and  stones 
knew  her. 

Suddenly,  with  an  artful  abruptness,  Choulette  precipi- 
tated himself  into  the  carriage.  Armed  with  his  knotted 
stick,  his  head  enveloped  in  rough  fur  and  a  red  shaw.1, 
he  almost  alarmed  her.  That  was  what  he  wanted.  His 
violent  pose  and  savage  mien  were  affectations. 

Always  occupied  with  bizarre  and  trivial  effects  it  was 


78  THE  RED  LILY 

his  delight  to  appear  alarming.  Himself  very  easily  fright- 
ened, he  liked  to  inspire  the  terror  he  experienced.  Smok- 
ing his  pipe  alone  at  the  end  of  the  passage  only  a  few 
moments  before,  as  he  saw  the  moon  behind  the  fleeting 
clouds,  over  the  Camargue,  his  imaginative,  versatile  soul 
had  been  struck  by  childish  fears.  He  had  come  to  take 
refuge  with  Countess  Martin. 

"Aries,"  he  said.  "Do  you  know  Aries?  It  is  pure 
beauty!  In  the  cloisters  of  St.  Trophimus  I  have  seen 
doves  perched  on  the  shoulders  of  statues,  and  little  grey 
lizards  warming  themselves  on  the  tombs  in  the  Aliscamps. 
The  tombs  are  now  arranged  on  each  side  of  the  road  lead- 
ing to  the  church.  They  are  cistern-shaped,  and  at  night 
beggars  sleep  in  them.  One  evening,  as  I  was  walking  with 
Paul  Arene,  I  met  a  nice  old  woman  who  was  spreading 
dried  grass  in  the  tomb  of  a  virgin  who  died  long  ago 
on  her  wedding-day.  We  wished  her  good-night.  She  re- 
plied: 'May  God  hear  you.  But  an  evil  fate  has  willed 
that  this  cistern  should  be  open  to  the  north-west  wind. 
If  only  the  crack  had  been  on  the  other  side,  I  should 
have  slept  like  Queen  Jane.'  " 

Therese  did  not  reply.  She  was  sleepy.  And  Choulette, 
shivering  in  the  aaight  cold,  thought  of  death  and  was 
afraid. 


VIII 

MISS  BELL  had  driven  the  Countess  Martin-Beileme 
and  Madame  Marmet  in  her  trap  from  the  Florence 
station,  up  the  steep  hill,  to  her  house  at  Fiesole,  painted 
pink,  surrounded  by  a  balustrade,  and  looking  down  on 
the  incomparable  city.  The  maid  was  following  with  the 
luggage.  Choulette,  whom  Miss  Bell  had  quartered  on 
a  verger's  widow  in  the  shadow  of  Fiesole  cathedral,  was  to 
come  to  dinner.  Pleasant  and  plain,  with  short  hair  and 
slim,  flat  figure,  almost  graceful  in  her  tailor-made  coat 
and  skirt  of  masculine  cut,  the  poetess  welcomed  her  French 
friends  to  her  home.  The  house  betrayed  the  refined  deli- 
cacy of  her  taste.  On  the  drawing-room  walls  pale  virgins 
of  Sienna,  with  long  hands,  reigned  tranquilly  over  angels, 
patriarchs,  and  saints  in  triptychs  with  fine  gilded  mould- 
ings. On  a  pedestal  was  a  standing  figure  of  a  Magdalen, 
enveloped  in  her  long  hair,  terribly  old  and  wasted,  some 
beggar  on  the  road  to  Pistoia,  her  skin  hardened  by  sun 
and  snow,  copied  in  clay,  with  horrible  pathetic  realism, 
by  an  unknown  precursor  of  Donatello.  And  Miss  Bell's 
armorial  bearings,  big  bells  and  little  bells,  were  every- 
where. The  largest,  in  bronze,  were  in  the  corners  of  the 
room;  others  formed  a  chain  round  the  bottom  of  the  walls. 
Smaller  ones  bordered  the  cornice.  There  were  bells  on 
the  stove,  on  the  coffers  and  the  cabinets.  There  were 
glass  cases  full  of  bells  in  silver  and  silver  gilt.  There  were 
big  bronze  bells  engraved  with  the  Florentine  lily,  little 
Renaissance  bells  composed  of  a  woman  wearing  a  full 
farthingale,  funeral  bells  decorated  with  tears  and  bones, 
filigree  bells,  covered  with  leaves  and  symbolic  animals, 
which  rang  in  churches  in  the  days  of  St.  Louis,  table  bells 
of  the  seventeenth  century  with  a  statuette  for  handle,  little 
flat  clear-sounding  cow-bells  of  the  Rutli  valleys,  Indian 
bells  made  to  ring  softly  with  a  stag's  horn,  Chinese  bells 
of  cylindrical  form;  they  had  come  there  from  all  coun- 

79 


8o  THE  RED  LILY 

tries  and  from  all  times  in  obedience  to  the  magic  summons 
of  this  little  Miss  Bell. 

"You  are  looking  at  my  vocal  coats  of  arms,"  she  said 
to  Madame  Martin.  "I  think  all  those  Misses  Bell  are 
happy  here,  and  it  would  not  astonish  me  if  one  day  they 
began  to  sing  together.  But  you  must  not  admire  them 
all  equally.  You  must  keep  your  highest  praise  for  this 
one." 

As  she  struck  with  her  finger  a  dark  plain  bell,  there  re- 
sounded a  shrill  note: 

"This  one,"  she  resumed,  "is  a  holy  country-woman  of 
the  fifth  century.  She  is  the  daughter  in  the  faith  of 
Paulinus  of  Nola,  he  who  first  made  music  in  the  sky  above 
us.  It  is  made  of  a  rare  metal,  called  Campanian  brass. 
Soon  I  will  show  you  at  her  side  a  most  charming  Floren- 
tine, the  queen  of  bells.  She  is  to  come.  But  I  am  weary- 
ing you  with  these  toys,  darling.  And  I  am  boring  kind 
Madame  Marmet  also.  It  is  too  bad  of  me." 

She  took  them  to  their  rooms. 

An  hour  later,  Madame  Martin,  refreshed  and  rested,  in 
a  tea-gown  of  soft  silk  and  lace,  came  down  on  to  the 
terrace,  where  Miss  Bell  was  waiting  for  her.  The  damp 
air,  warmed  by  the  sunlight,  not  yet  strong  but  already 
abundant,  breathed  the  disquieting  sweetness  of  spring. 
Therese,  leaning  against  the  balustrade,  bathed  her  eyes 
in  the  light.  At  her  feet  the  cypresses  raised  their  dark 
pyramids  and  the  olive  trees  clustered  on  the  slopes.  In 
the  hollow  of  the  valley  was  Florence  with  its  domes,  its 
towers,  the  multitude  of  its  red  roofs,  among  which  was 
faintly  discernible  the  winding  thread  of  the  Arno.  Be- 
yond were  the  blue  hills. 

She  tried  to  make  out  the  Boboli  gardens,  where  she  had 
walked  during  a  previous  visit,  the  Cascine,  which  she  did 
not  care  for,  the  Pitti  Palace,  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore.  Then 
the  glorious  spaces  of  the  sky  attracted  her.  She  followed 
the  fleeting  forms  of  the  clouds. 

After  a  long  silence,  Vivian  Bell  stretched  out  her  hand 
towards  the  horizon. 

"Darling,  I  cannot  express  myself,  I  don't  know  how 
to  say  it.  But  look,  darling,  look  again.  What  you  see 


THE  RED  LILY  81 

is  unique.  Nowhere  else  is  nature  so  subtle,  so  elegant, 
so  delicate.  The  god  who  created  the  Florentine  hills 
was  an  artist.  Yes,  he  was  a  worker  in  jewels,  an  en- 
graver of  medals,  a  sculptor,  a  bronze  founder,  and  a 
painter;  he  was  a  Florentine.  And  he  produced  nothing 
else,  darling.  The  rest  is  the  work  of  a  less  delicate  hand, 
a  less  perfect  creation.  How  could  that  violet  hill  of  San 
Miniato,  standing  out  in  such  pure  and  firm  relief,  be  by 
the  author  of  Mont  Blanc?  It  is  not  possible.  This  land- 
scape, darling,  has  all  the  beauty  of  an  ancient  medal  and 
a  costly  painting.  It  is  a  perfect  and  harmonious  work 
of  art.  And  there  is  something  else  that  I  can't  express, 
that  I  can't  understand,  and  yet  it  it  true.  In  this  coun- 
try, I  feel,  and  you  will  feel  like  me,  darling,  half  alive 
and  half  dead,  in  a  state  very  noble,  very  sad  and  very 
sweet.  Look,  look  well;  you  will  discern  the  melancholy 
of  these  hills  which  surround  Florence,  and  you  will  be- 
hold a  delicious  sadness  ascending  from  the  Country  of  the 
Dead." 

The  sun  was  declining  towards  the  horizon.  One  by 
one  the  lights  faded  from  the  hills  and  the  clouds  became 
on  fire. 

Madame  Marmet  sneezed. 

Miss  Bell  had  shawls  brought  and  warned  her  French 
guests  that  the  evenings  were  cold  and  dangerous. 

Then  suddenly  she  said: 

"Darling,  do  you  know  M.  Jacques  Dechartre?  Well, 
he  writes  that  he  is  coming  to  Florence  next  week.  I  am 
glad  that  M.  Jacques  Dechartre  should  be  in  our  city  at 
the  same  time  as  you.  He  will  go  with  us  to  churches 
and  museums;  and  he  will  be  a  good  guide.  He  under- 
stands beautiful  things  because  he  loves  them.  His  sculp- 
ture is  exquisite.  His  figures  and  medallions  are  even  more 
highly  appreciated  in  England  than  in  France.  Oh!  I  am 
so  glad  that  M.  Jacques  Dechartre  will  be  at  Florence 
with  you,  darling!" 


DC 

next  day,  as  they  were  coming  out  of  Santa  Maria 
JL  Novella,  and  crossing  the  square,  where,  as  in  an 
ancient  circus,  stand  two  obelisks  of  marble,  Madame  Mar- 
met  said  to  Countess  Martin:  "I  think  I  see  Monsieur 
Choulette." 

Sitting  in  a  cobbler's  booth,  pipe  in  hand,  Choulette 
was  gesticulating  rhythmically,  and  appeared  to  be  recit- 
ing verses.  The  Florentine  shoemaker,  as  he  worked  with 
his  awl,  was  listening  with  a  good-natured  smile.  He  was 
a  little  bald  man,  a  favourite  type  in  Flemish  pictures.  On 
the  table,  among  the  wooden  lasts,  nails,  pieces  of  leather, 
and  balls  of  wax,  was  a  basil  plant.  A  sparrow  with  a 
false  leg,  made  of  a  bit  of  match,  was  hopping  gaily  from 
the  old  man's  shoulder  to  his  head. 

Delighted  at  such  a  sight,  Madame  Martin  stood  on 
the  threshold  and  called  Choulette,  who  was  reciting  in  a 
soft,  singing  voice,  and  asked  him  why  he  had  not  come 
with  her  to  visit  the  Cappella  degli  Spagnuoli. 

He  rose  and  replied: 

"Madame,  you  are  occupied  with  vain  imaginings.  I  am 
concerned  with  life  and  reality." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  cobbler,  and  followed  the  two 
ladies. 

"On  my  way  to  Santa  Maria  Novella,"  he  said,  "I  saw 
this  old  man,  leaning  over  his  work,  holding  the  last  be- 
tween his  knees  as  Jf  in  a  vise,  and  stitching  clumsy  shoes. 
I  felt  that  he  was  simple  and  good.  I  said  to  him  in 
Italian,  'Father,  will  you  drink  a  glass  of  Chianti  with 
me?'  He  was  quite  willing.  He  went  to  fetch  a  bottle 
and  glasses,  while  I  minded  his  shop." 

And  Choulette  pointed  to  two  glasses  and  a  bottle  stand- 
ing on  the  stove. 

"When  he  returned  we  drank  together;  I  repeated  good 
words  of  obscure  meaning,  the  music  of  which  delighted 
him.  I  shall  return  to  his  booth.  I  shall  learn  from 

82 


THE  RED  LILY  83 

him  how  to  make  shoes  and  live  a  contented  life.  After 
that  I  shall  never  know  sadness,  which  arises  solely  from 
discontent  and  idleness." 

Countess  Martin  smiled. 

"Monsieur  Choulette,  I  am  not  discontented,  and  yet 
I  am  not  gay.  Must  I  also  learn  to  make  shoes?" 

Choulette  replied  gravely: 

"Not  yet." 

When  they  reached  the  Oricellari  Gardens,  Madame  Mar- 
met  dropped  on  to  a  seat.  At  Santa  Maria  Novella  she 
had  carefully  examined  the  serene  frescoes  of  Ghirlandajo, 
the  choir-stalls,  the  virgin  of  Cimabue,  and  the  pictures  in 
the  monastery.  She  had  taken  great  pains  in  honour  of 
her  husband's  memory,  who  was  said  to  have  loved  Italian 
art.  She  was  tired.  Choulette  sat  down  by  her  and  said: 

"Could  you  tell  me,  Madame,  if  it  is  true  that  the  Pope 
has  his  robes  made  by  Worth?" 

Madame  Marmet  did  not  think  so.    Nevertheless  Chou 
lette  had  heard  it  in  the  cafes.    Madame  Martin  was  sur- 
prised that  Choulette,  a  Catholic  and  a  Socialist,  should 
speak  so  disrespectfully  of  a  Pope  who  was  the   friencr 
of  the  Republic.    But  he  had  little  admiration  for  Leo  XIII. 

"The  wisdom  of  princes  is  short-sighted,"  he  said.  "The 
Church's  salvation  will  be  effected  by  the  Italian  Republic; 
and  this  is  what  Leo  XIII  believes  and  desires;  but  the 
Church  will  not  be  saved  in  the  way  that  pious  Machiavelli 
expects:  the  revolution  will  deprive  the  Pope  of  his  in« 
iquitous  tribute  with  the  rest  of  his  temporal  dominion. 
And  that  will  be  the  salvation  of  the  papacy.  Poor  and 
stripped  of  his  temporal  power,  the  Pope  will  once  more 
be  powerful.  He  will  move  the  world.  The  Peters,  the 
Linuses,  the  Cletuses,  the  Anacletuses,  the  Clements,*  the 
humble,  the  ignorant,  the  saints  of  early  times  who  changed 
the  face  of  the  earth,  will  return.  If  such  an  impossible 
thing  were  to  happen  as  that  to-morrow  there  were  to  sit 
in  the  chair  of  St.  Peter  a  true  bishop,  a  true  Christian,  I 
should  go  to  him  and  say:  'Cease  to  be  an  old  man  buried 

*  St.  Peter,  St.  Linus,  St.  Cletus,  St.  Clement,  St.  Anacletus  are 
said  to  have  been  the  first  five  Popes,  A.D.  65-109  (cf.  Butler's 
"Lives  of  the  Saints"). — W.S. 


84  THE  RED  LILY 

alive  in  a  golden  tomb.  Leave  your  chamberlains,  your 
noble  body-guards,  and  your  cardinals;  abandon  your  throne 
and  the  empty  shows  of  power.  Come,  and,  supported  by 
me,  beg  your  bread  from  the  nations.  Ragged,  poor,  sick, 
dying,  bear  in  yourself  the  image  of  Jesus.  Say,  I  beg 
my  bread  in  order  that  the  rich  may  be  reproached.  Enter 
the  towns  and  cry  from  door  to  door:  Be  humble,  be  gentle, 
be  poor!  Proclaim  peace  and  charity  in  dark  cities,  in 
barracks,  and  in  miserable  hovels.  You  will  be  despised, 
you  will  be  stoned.  Soldiers  will  drag  you  to  prison.  To 
the  humble  as  to  the  powerful,  to  the  poor  as  to  the  rich, 
you  will  be  a  laughing-stock,  a  subject  for  disgust  and 
pity.  Your  priests  will  depose  you  and  elect  an  anti- 
pope.  Every  one  will  call  you  mad.  And  they  must 
speak  the  truth;  for  you  must  be  mad:  the  world  has 
always  been  saved  by  madmen.  Men  will  crown  you  with 
a  crowns  of  thorns,  and  put  in  your  hands  a  sceptre  of 
reeds;  and  by  these  signs  they  shall  know  you  to  be  the 
Christ,  the  true  King.  By  these  means  you  shall  establish 
Christian  socialism,  which  is  the  kingdom  of  God  on 
earth.'  " 

Having  thus  spoken,  Choulette  lit  a  long  Italian  cigar 
with  a  straw  running  through  the  middle.  He  inhaled  a 
few  whin's  of  noxious  smoke  and  then  tranquilly  resumed: 

"And  it  would  be  quite  practical.  I  am  nothing  if  not 
clear-headed.  Ah!  Madame  Marmet,  you  will  never  know 
how  true  it  is  that  the  great  tasks  of  the  world  have  always 
been  accomplished  by  madmen.  Do  you  think,  Madame 
Mlartin,  that  if  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  had  been  reasonable,  he 
could  have  shed  abroad  among  the  nations  the  living  wa- 
ters of  charity  and  quickened  them  with  the  perfumes  of 
love?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Madame  Martin.  "But  I  al- 
ways find  reasonable  persons  very  wearisome.  I  need  not 
hesitate  to  say  this  to  you,  Monsieur  Choulette." 

They  returned  up  the  hill  to  Fiesole  by  steam  tram.  It 
was  raining.  Madame  Marmet  fell  asleep,  and  Choulette 
grumbled.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  misfortunes:  the 
dampness  of  the  atmosphere  gave  him  pains  in  the  knee 
and  be  couldn't  bend  his  leg;  his  carpet-bag,  lost  on  the 


THE  RED  LILY  85 

way  from  the  station  to  Fiesole,  couldn't  be  found,  and 
that  was  an  irreparable  disaster;  a  Parisian  review  had  just 
published  one  of  his  poems  with  glaring  misprints. 

He  accused  men  and  things  of  being  against  him,  bent 
on  his  ruin.  He  was  childish,  absurd,  disagreeable.  Ma- 
dame Martin,  depressed  by  Choulette  and  by  the  rain, 
thought  the  ascent  would  never  come  to  an  end.  When  she 
entered  the  house  of  bells,  she  found  Miss  Bell  in  the 
drawing-room.  In  a  handwriting  modelled  on  the  Aldine 
type  she  was  copying,  in  golden  ink,  on  to  a  piece  of 
parchment,  the  verses  she  had  composed  during  the  night. 
At  the  sight  of  her  friend,  she  raised  her  plain  little  face, 
glorified  by  her  fine  brilliant  eyes. 

"Darling,  let  me  introduce  Prince  Albertinelli."     . 

The  prince,  in  all  the  beauty  of  a  young  Adonis,  hu- 
manised by  a  straight  black  beard,  was  standing  near  the 
stove.  He  bowed  to  Madame  Martin. 

"Madame  would  inspire  us  with  a  love  for  France  had 
not  that  sentiment  already  taken  root  in  our  hearts,"  he 
said. 

The  Countess  and  Choulette  asked  Miss  Bell  to  read 
them  the  verses  she  was  writing.  She  said  it  would  be 
impossible  for  her  to  make  her  halting  numbers  compre- 
hensible to  the  French  poet  whom  she  admired  most  after 
Frangois  Villon;  then,  in  her  pretty,  shrill,  birdlike  voice, 
she  recited: 

Where  the  stream,  like  a  water-sprite,  laughing  and  singing, 

And  waving  cool  arms,  to  the  Arno  down-springing, 

In  spray-lifting  leaps,  skips  o'er  rugged  rock-ledges, 

Two  comely  young  lovers  changed  rings  as  love's  pledges. 

And  the  transport  of  love  in  their  bosoms  was  swelling, 

As  the  riotous  drops  in  the  torrent  upwelling, 

The  maiden  was   Gemma,   but  name   for  her   lover 

No  chronicler  ever  was  known  to  discover. 

As  day  followed  day,  lips  to  lips  closely  pressing, 

With  arms  interlaced  in  their  artless  caressing, 

The  goats  cropping  thyme  all  unstartled  would  brook  them, 

Till  at  eve  to  their  home  in  the  town  they  betook  them. 

And  there  the  tired  toilers,  'neath  linden  trees  seated, 

The  dream-enwrapped  lovers  nor  heeded  nor  greeted. 

Yet  they  wept  when  they  thought  there  remained  not  to  capture 

From  life,  aught  of  bliss  that  could  heighten  their  rapture. 


86  THE  RED  LILY 

In  that  meadow  where  first  they  gave  ear  to  love's  singing, 
Where  like  as  the  vine  to  the  green  elm-tree  clinging, 
O'erarched  by  the  sky  their  first  kisses  they  blended, 
Its  blood-tinted  petals  a  strange  plant  extended, 
All  lance-like  and  wan  were  the  leaves  of  its  growing, 
Herb  of  Silence  its  name  of  the  shepherds'  bestowing. 

And  Gemma  was  'ware  it  was  potent  in  lending 
The  slumber  eternal,  the  dream  without  ending, 
To  all  who  should  taste  its  ineffable  savour. 

One  day,  'neath  the  branches  with  breezes  a-quaver, 
With  a  leaflet  she  parted  the  lips  of  her  lover, 
And  straightway  ElysiurA  received  him,  a  rover ; 
Then  she,  of  the  peace-bringing  leaf  having  tasted, 
In  pursuit  of  her  love  to  the  silent  shades  hasted. 

And  the  dove,  that  at  twilight  complains  as  it  hovers, 
Alone  breaks  the  silence  enwrapping  the  lovers.* 

"That  is  very  pretty,"  said  Choulette;  "it  suggests  an 
Italy  veiled  in  the  mists  of  the  Land  of  Thule." 

"Yes,"  said  Countess  Martin,  "it  is  pretty.  But,  my  dear 
Vivian,  why  did  your  two  innocents  want  to  die?" 

"Why,  darling!  because  they  felt  as  happy  as  possible, 
and  they  desired  nothing  more.  Nothing  was  left  to  them 
to  hope  for.  Don't  you  understand?" 

"Then  you  believe  that  hope  keeps  us  alive?" 

"Yes,  darling,  we  live  in  the  expectation  of  what  To- 
morrow, To-morrow,  King  of  Fairyland,  will  bring  in  his 

*  "Lors  au  pied  des  rochers  oil  la  source  penchante, 
Pareille  a  la  Naiade  et  qui  rit  et  qui  chante, 
Agite  ses  bras  frais  et  vole  vers  1'Arno, 
Deux  beaux  enfants  avaient  echange  leur  anneau, 
Et  le  bonheur  d'aimer  coulait  dans  leurs  poitrines 
Comme  i'eau  du  torrent  au  versant  des  collines. 
Elle  avait  nom  Gemma.    Mais  I'amant  de  Gemma, 
Nul  entre  les  conteurs  jamais  ne  le  nomma. 

Le  jour,  ces  innocents,  la  bouche  sur  la  bouche, 
Melaient  leurs  jeunes  corps  dans  la  sauvage  couche 
De  thym  que  visitait  la  chevre.     Et  vers  le  soir, 
A  1'heure  ou  1'artisan  fatigue  va  s'asseoir 
Sous  les  tilleuls,  surpris,  ils  regagnaient  la  ville. 
Nul  n'avait  souci  d'eux  dans  la  foule  servile, 
Et  souvent  ils  pleuraient,  se  sentant  trop  heureux. 
He  comprirent  que  vivre  etait  mauvais  pour  eux, 


THE  RED  LILY  87 

mantle  of  black  or  blue,  embroidered  with  flowers,  with 
stars,  and  with  tears.    Oh  bright  king  To-morrow!" 

Or,  dans  cette  prairie  ou  dechires  de  joie, 
Us  etaient  1'orme  vert  et  la  vigne  qui  ploie, 
Et  tordaient  sous  le  ciel  leur  rameau  gemissant, 
S'elevait  une  plante  etrange,  aux  fleurs  de  sang, 
Qui  dardait  son  feuillage  en  pales  fers  de  lance. 
Les  bergers  la  nommaient  la  Plante  du  silence. 

Et  Gemma  le  savait,  que  le  sommeil  divin 
Et  Feternel  repos  et  Je  reve  sans  fin 
Viendraient  de  cette  plante  a  qui  1'aurait  mordue. 

Un  jour  qu'elle  riait  sous  1'arbuste  etendue, 
Elle  en  mit  une  feuille  aux  levres  de  1'ami. 
Quand  il  fut  dans  la  joie  a  jamais  endormi, 
Elle  mordit  aussi  la  feuille  bien-aimee. 
Aux  pieds  de  son  amant  elle  tomba  pamee. 

Les  colombes  au  soir  sur  eux  vinrent  gemir, 
fit  rien  plus  ne  troubla  leur  amoureux  dormir." 


'  I  AHEY  were  dressed  for  dinner.  In  the  drawing-room 
JL  Miss  Bell  was  drawing  monsters,  suggested  by  those  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci.  She  created  them  in  order  to  see  what 
they  would  say,  convinced  that  they  would  speak  and 
express  rare  ideas  in  curious  rhymes.  Then  she  would 
listen  to  them.  It  was  thus  that  she  generally  conceived 
her  poems. 

Prince  Albertinelli  was  strumming  on  the  piano  the 
Sicilian  air,  O  Lola!  His  fingers  passed  lightly  over  the 
keys. 

Choulette,  more  uncouth  than  usual,  was  asking  for  a 
needle  and  thread  with  which  to  mend  his  clothes.  He 
was  groaning  over  the  loss  of  a  modest  needle-case  he 
had  carried  in  his  pocket  for  thirty  years,  and  which  was 
precious  on  account  of  the  sweet  memories  it  recalled  and 
the  wise  counsels  it  suggested.  He  thought  he  must  have 
lost  it  in  that  impious  hall  of  the  Pitti  Palace,  and  he  held 
the  Medicis  and  all  the  Italian  painters  responsible. 

Looking  at  Miss  Bell  reproachfully,  he  said: 

"I  compose  my  poems  when  I  am  mending  my  clothes. 
I  take  delight  in  manual  labour.  I  sing  my  songs  as  I 
sweep  my  room.  That  is  why  those  songs  go  straight 
to  the  hearts  of  men,  like  the  old  songs  of  ploughmen  and 
artisans,  which  are  more  beautiful  than  mine  but  not 
more  natural.  I  take  a  pride  in  waiting  on  myself.  The 
verger's  widow  offered  to  mend  my  rags.  I  would  not 
permit  it.  It  is  wrong  to  employ  others  to  do  servilely 
what  we  could  ourselves  accomplish  in  noble  free- 
dom." 

The  Prince  was  playing  slight  airs  mechanically.  Therese, 
who  for  the  last  week  had  been  visiting  churches  and 
museums  with  Madame  Marmet,  was  meditating  on  the 
vexation  her  companion  caused  her  by  insisting  on  recog- 
nising resemblances  to  persons  among  her  acquaintance  in 
the  portraits  by  the  old  masters.  That  morning  at  the 


THE  RED  LILY  89 

Riccardi  Palace,  merely  in  the  frescoes  of  Benozzo  Goz- 
zoli,  she  had  recognised  M.  Garain,  M.  Lagrange,  M. 
Schmoll,  Princess  Seniavine  dressed  as  a  page,  and  M. 
Renan  on  horseback.  M.  Renan  she  was  quite  alarmed 
to  find  everywhere.  Her  ideas  were  always  revolving 
around  her  little  academical  and  social  circle  with  a  facility 
which  annoyed  her  friend.  In  her  sweet  voice  she  was 
always  describing  the  public  meetings  of  the  Institute,  lec- 
tures at  the  Sorbonne,  assemblies  adorned  by  fashionable 
theosophists.  As  for  the  women,  in  her  opinion  they  were 
all  charming  and  irreproachable.  She  visited  them  all.  And 
Therese  reflected:  "Kind  Madame  Marmet!  She  is  too 
discreet.  She  bores  me."  And  Madame  Marmet  thought  of 
leaving  her  behind  at  Fiesole  and  visiting  the  churches 
alone.  She  said  to  herself,  using  an  expression  that  Le 
Menil  had  taught  her: 

"I  must  drop  Madame  Marmet." 

A  thin  old  man  entered  the  drawing-room.  His  waxed 
moustache  and  little  white  pointed  beard  made  him  look 
like  an  old  officer.  But  beneath  his  spectacles  his  glance 
betrayed  the  cunning  geniality  of  eyes  worn  out  in  the 
service  of  science  and  pleasure.  He  was  a  Florentine, 
a  friend  of  Miss  Bell  and  of  the  Prince,  Professor  Arrighi, 
once  adored  by  women,  now  famous  throughout  Tuscany 
and  the  Emilia  *  for  his  essays  on  agriculture. 

Countess  Martin  liked  him  at  once.  Although  she  had 
not  been  favourably  impressed  by  rural  life  in  Italy,  she 
carefully  questioned  the  Professor  concerning  his  methods 
and  their  results. 

He  proceeded,  he  said,  with  energy  tempered  by  prudence. 

"The  earth,"  he  continued,  "is  like  a  woman.  She  re- 
quires you  to  be  neither  timid  nor  brutal." 

The  Ave  Maria  sounding  from  all  the  campanili  con- 
verted the  sky  into  one  vast  musical  instrument  playing 
religious  music. 

"Darling,"  said  Miss  Bell,  "do  you  hear  how  in  the 
evening  the  air  of  Florence  is  sonorous  and  tinkling  with 
the  sound  of  bells?" 

*A  district  composed  of  three  duchies,  Parma,  Piacenza  and  Mo« 
dena.-  -W.S. 


90  THE  RED  LILY 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Choulette,  "but  we  all  seem  as  if 
we  were  waiting  for  some  one." 

Vivian  Bell  replied  that  they  were  indeed  waiting  for 
some  one,  for  M.  Dechartre.  He  was  rather  late.  She  was 
afraid  he  must  have  missed  his  train. 

Choulette  went  up  to  Madame  Marmet  and  said  very 
gravely: 

"Madame  Marmet,  can  you  ever  look  at  a  door,  a  sim- 
ple door  of  painted  wood,  like  yours  for  instance  or  mine, 
on  that  one  or  any  other,  without  being  filled  with  fear 
and  horror  at  the  thought  of  the  visitor  who  may  enter  at 
any  moment?  The  door  of  our  dwelling  opens  into  the 
infinite.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  it?  Do  we  ever  know 
the  true  name  of  him  or  her,  who,  in  human  form,  with 
a  familiar  face,  in  commonplace  clothes,  enters  our 
house?" 

For  his  part,  shut  up  in  his  own  room,  he  could  never 
look  at  the  door  without  fear  making  his  hair  stand  on 
end. 

But  Madame  Marmet  was  able  to  look  at  her  drawing- 
room  doors  without  experiencing  the  slightest  alarm.  She 
knew  the  names  of  all  her  visitors;  all  delightful  people. 

Choulette  looked  at  her  sadly  and  shook  his  head: 

"Madame  Marmet,  Madame  Marmet,  those  whom  you 
call  by  their  earthly  names  have  another  name,  which  you 
do  not  know,  but  which  is  their  true  name." 

Madame  Martin  asked  Choulette  if  he  believed  that  when 
misfortune  descended  upon  people  there  was  any  need 
for  it  to  cross  the  threshold. 

"It  is  subtle  and  ingenious.  It  comes  through  the  win- 
dow, it  passes  through  walls.  It  is  not  always  seen,  but 
it  is  always  there.  The  poor  doors  are  quite  innocent 
of  the  advent  of  this  evil  visitor." 

Choulette  reproached  Madame  Martin  severely  for  call- 
ing the  advent  of  misfortune  evil. 

"Misfortune  is  our  greatest  master  and  our  best  friend. 
It  teaches  us  the  meaning  of  life.  Ladies,  when  you  suf- 
fer, you  will  know  what  you  ought  to  know,  you  will 
believe  what  you  ought  to  believe,  you  will  do  what  you 
ought  to  do,  you  will  be  what  you  ought  to  be.  And 


THE  RED  LILY  91 

you  will  possess  that  joy  which  pleasure  banishes.  Joy 
is  shy  and  delights  not  in  feasting." 

Prince  Albertinelli  said  that  neither  Miss  Bell  nor  her 
two  French  friends  needed  misfortune  to  make  them  per- 
fect, and  that  the  doctrine  of  perfection  through  suffering 
was  barbarously  cruel  and  held  in  horror  beneath  the  beau- 
tiful Italian  sky.  Then,  when  conversation  languished,  he 
returned  to  the  piano  and  tried  to  finger  out  the  melody 
of  the  graceful  conventional  Sicilian  air,  fearing  to  glide 
into  the  somewhat  similar  one  in  II  Trovatore. 

Vivian  Bell  was  questioning  in  whispers  the  monsters  she 
had  created  and  grumbling  at  their  absurd  jesting  replies. 

"At  this  moment,"  she  said,  "I  only  want  to  listen  to 
tapestry  figures  talking  of  things  pale,  ancient,  and  as 
precious  as  they." 

And  now  the  handsome  Prince  was  singing,  carried  away 
on  the  flood  of  melody.  His  voice  swelled,  spread  itself 
out  like  a  peacock's  tail,  and  then  died  away  softly. 

Kind  Madame  Marmet,  with  her  eyes  on  the  glass  door, 
said: 

"I  think  here  is  M.  Dechartre." 

He  entered  with  a  vivacious  animated  air.  His  face,  gen- 
erally grave,  was  beaming  with  joy. 

Miss  Bell  welcomed  him  with  little  bird-like  cries. 

"Monsieur  Dechartre,  we  were  growing  very  impatient. 
M.  Choulette  was  speaking  evil  of  doors.  Yes,  doors  in 
houses;  and  he  was  saying  that  misfortune  is  an  obliging 
old  gentleman.  You  have  lost  ail  these  fine  things.  You 
have  kept  us  waiting,  Monsieur  Dechartre;  why?" 

He  made  his  excuses:  he  had  barely  had  time  to  go  to 
his  hotel  and  dress  quickly.  He  had  not  even  been  to 
greet  his  dear  good  friend  the  bronze  San  Marco,  so  pa- 
thetic in  its  niche,  on  the  wall  of  Or  San  Michele.  He 
complimented  the  poetess  and  greeted  Countess  Martin  with 
an  ill-concealed  delight. 

"Before  leaving  Paris,  I  called  at  your  house  on  the 
Quai  de  Billy,  where  I  was  told  that  you  had  gone  to 
meet  the  spring  at  Miss  Bell's  at  Fiesole.  Then  I  hoped 
I  might  find  you  in  that  country  which  now  I  love  more 
than  ever." 


92  THE  RED  LILY 

She  asked  him  if  he  had  been  first  to  Venice  and  ta 
Ravenna  to  see  the  haloed  empresses  and  the  glistening 
phantoms. 

No,  he  had  not  stayed  anywhere. 

She  said  nothing.  Her  glance  remained  fixed  on  one 
corner  of  the  wall  on  the  bell  of  St.  Paulinus. 

He  said: 

"You  are  looking  at  the  bell  from  Nola." 

Vivian  threw  down  her  papers  and  pencils. 

"You  will  soon  see  a  marvel  which  will  appeal  to  you 
more  than  that,  M.  Dechartre.  I  have  discovered  the  queen 
of  little  bells.  I  found  it  at  Rimini,  in  a  ruined  wine- 
press, which  is  now  being  used  as  a  shop,  where  I  had 
gone  for  some  old  wood  saturated  with  oil,  hard,  dark,  and 
shiny.  I  bought  the  bell  and  had  it  packed  myself.  I 
shall  not  live  until  it  arrives.  You  will  see.  On  its  cup  is 
a  Christ  on  the  Cross,  between  the  Virgin  and  St.  John, 
with  the  date  1400  and  the  arms  of  the  Malatesta. 

"Monsieur  Dechartre,  you  are  not  attending.  You  must 
listen.  In  1400,  Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  who  was  fleeing  from 
war  and  plague,  had  taken  refuge  at  Rimini  with  Paolo 
Malatesta.  It  must  certainly  have  been  he  who  modelled 
the  figures  on  my  bell.  Next  week  you  will  see  a  work 
by  Ghiberti  here." 

Dinner  was  announced.  She  asked  them  to  pardon  her 
giving  them  an  Italian  dinner.  Her  cook  was  a  poet 
of  Fiesole. 

At  table,  before  the  fiasconi,  encased  in  maize  straw,  they 
talked  of  that  blessed  fifteenth  century  that  they  loved. 
Prince  Albertinelli  praised  the  universality  of  the  artists 
of  that  period,  their  passionate  love  of  art  and  their 
genius.  He  spoke  emphatically,  in  a  caressing  voice. 

Dechartre  admired  them,  but  in  a  different  manner. 

"An  appropriate  eulogy,"  he  said,  "of  those  men  who 
from  Cimabue  to  Masaccio  laboured  with  such  whole- 
hearted devotion,  should  be  both  modest  and  precise.  One 
must  regard  them  first  in  the  studio,  and  then  in  the  work- 
shop, where  they  lived  like  artisans.  It  is  by  studying 
them  at  their  work  that  one  comes  to  appreciate  their 
simplicity  and  their  genius.  They  were  rough  and  igno- 


THE  RED  LILY  93 

rant.  They  had  read  little  and  seen  little.  The  hills 
around  Florence  enclosed  their  visual  and  mental  horizon. 
They  knew  nothing  beyond  their  own  town,  the  Bible  and 
a  few  fragments  of  ancient  sculpture,  tenderly  studied  and 
cherished." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Professor  Arrighi.  "All  they 
cared  about  was  to  use  the  best  process.  Their  minds  were 
entirely  occupied  in  preparing  glaze  and  mixing  colours. 
He  who  first  thought  of  pasting  linen  over  a  panel  ix 
order  that  the  painting  might  not  crack  with  the  wood, 
was  heralded  as  a  man  of  genius.  Every  master  had  his 
own  recipes  and  formulae,  which  he  guarded  in  strict 
secrecy." 

"Happy  days,"  resumed  Dechartre,  "when  no  one 
dreamed  of  that  originality  to  which  to-day  we  so  eagerly 
aspire.  The  apprentice  was  content  to  follow  his  master. 
His  sole  ambition  was  to  resemble  him,  and  it  was  quite 
involuntarily  that  he  appeared  different  from  the  others. 
They  worked  not  to  win  fame,  but  to  earn  a  livelihood." 

"They  were  right,"  said  Choulette;  "there  is  nothing 
better  than  to  work  for  a  livelihood." 

"To  desire  that  their  names  should  be  handed  down 
to  posterity,"  continued  Dechartre,  "never  occurred  to  them. 
Knowing  nothing  of  the  past,  they  did  not  think  of  the 
future,  and  their  dreams  were  confined  to  the  present.  On 
doing  good  they  concentrated  all  the  force  of  a  strong  will. 
And,  being  simple,  they  did  not  go  far  wrong;  they  beheld 
truths  which  our  intelligence  hides  from  us." 

Meanwhile  Choulette  was  beginning  to  tell  Madame  Mar- 
met  of  a  call  he  had  paid  that  day  on  the  French  royal 
princess,  to  whom  the  Marchioness  of  Rieu  had  given  him 
a  letter  of  introduction.  He  took  a  delight  in  insinuating 
that  he,  a  Bohemian,  had  been  received  by  a  royal  princess, 
who  would  not  have  seen  either  Miss  Bell  or  the  Countess 
Martin,  and  whom  Prince  Albertinelli  boasted  of  having 
met  at  some  public  reception. 

"She  practises  the  most  austere  piety,"  said  the  Prince. 

"Her  nobility  combined  with  simplicity  is  admirable," 
said  Choulette.  "Surrounded  by  the  gentlemen  and  ladies 
of  her  suite,  she  observes  the  strictest  etiquette,  and  makes 


94  THE  RED  LILY 

a  penance  of  her  high  rank.  Every  morning  she  washes 
the  church  floor.  It  is  a  village  church,  the  floor  of 
which  is  often  overrun  by  fowls,  while  the  priest  is  playing 
at  cards  with  the  verger." 

And  Choulette,  leaning  over  the  table,  imitated  with 
his  serviette  the  princess  at  her  work.  Then  raising  his 
head,  he  said  gravely: 

"After  a  fitting  time,  spent  in  waiting  in  a  long  series 
of  ante-chambers,  I  was  admitted  to  kiss  her  hand." 

And  he  was  silent. 

Madame  Martin  eagerly  curious,  asked: 

"Well,  what  did  this  charmingly  simple  and  noble  prin- 
cess say  to  you?" 

"She  asked  me:  'Have  you  been  to  Florence?  I  hear 
that  some  very  fine  shops  have  recently  been  opened  there, 
and  that  at  night  they  are  brilliantly  lighted.'  She  re- 
marked further:  'We  have  a  very  good  chemist  here.  No 
Austrian  chemist  could  be  better.  Six  weeks  ago  he  put 
a  plaster  on  my  leg  which  has  not  come  off  yet.'  Such  were 
the  words  that  Marie  Therese  deigned  to  address  to  me. 
O  simple  greatness!  O  Christian  virtue!  O  daughter  of 
St.  Louis!  O  marvellous  echo  of  thy  voice,  holy  Elizabeth 
of  Hungary!" 

Madame  Martin  smiled.  She  thought  ChouleUe  must 
be  joking.  But  he  insisted  that  he  was  serious.  Miss 
Bell  reproached  her  friend.  The  French,  she  said,  are 
always  too  ready  to  think  people  are  not  in  earnest. 

Then  they  resumed  the  discussion  of  those  artistic  ideas 
which  in  that  country  are  always  in  the  air. 

"For  my  part,"  said  Counters  Martin,  "I  am  not  learned 
enough  to  admire  Giotto  and  his  school.  What  strikes  me 
most  in  the  fifteenth  century  is  the  sensuality  of  that  so- 
called  Christian  art.  The  onlv  piety  and  purity  is  to  be 
found  in  the  figures  of  Fra  Angelico,  and  they  too  appeal  to 
the  senses  as  well  as  to  the  soul.  The  rest,  virgins  and 
angels,  are  voluptuous,  caressing,  and  even  perverse.  What 
religious  idea  do  they  express,  those  royal  magi  as  beauti- 
ful as  women  and  that  St.  Sebastian,  brilliant  in  his  youth- 
fulness,  like  the  suffering  Bacchus  of  Christianity?" 

Dechartre  replied  that  he  agreed  with  her  and  that  they 


THE  RED  LILY  95 

must  both  be  right,  since  Savonarola  was  of  their  opinion. 
Failing  to  discover  piety  in  any  work  of  art,  2*o  had  con- 
demned them  all  to  be  burnt. 

"In  the  days  of  that  superb  Manfred,  who  was  half 
a  Mussulman,  men.  said  to  be  followers  of  Epicurus,  tried 
to  argue  against  the  existence  of  God.  The  handsome  Guido 
Cavalcanti  despised  those  ignorant  persons  who  believed  in 
the  immortality  of  the  soul.  He  was  represented  as  hav- 
ing said  that  'The  death  of  a  man  is  like  that  of  a  beast.' 
Later  when  the  beauty  of  antiquity  rose  from  the  tfmb,  the 
Christian  sky  was  overclouded.  The  painters  who  worked 
in  churches  and  monasteries  were  neither  chaste  lor  de- 
vout. Perugino  was  an  atheist  and  did  not  deny  it  '' 

"Yes,"  retorted  Miss  Bell,  "but  he  was  said  to  lave  a 
hard  heart  into  which  celestial  truth  could  not  per.etrate. 
He  was  bitter  and  avaricious,  wrapped  up  in  materi;  1  con- 
cerns. He  thought  of  nothing  but  buying  houses." 

Professor  Arrighi  defended  Pietro  Vannucci  of  Perugia. 

"He  was  an  honest  man,"  he  said.  "And  the  prnr  of 
the  Gesuati  at  Florence  was  wrong  in  mistrusting  him.  This 
monk  practised  the  art  of  -making  ultra-marine  bUy.  by 
pounding  lapis-lazuli  to  a  powder.  The  ultra-marine  was 
worth  its  weight  in  gold,  and  the  prior,  who  knew  a  secret 
way  of  preparing  it,  considered  his  more  precious  '  ban 
rubies  and  sapphires.  He  asked  Pietro  to  decorate  the 
two  cloisters  of  his  monastery,  and  he  expected  wonoVrs, 
less  from  the  skill  of  the  master  than  from  the  beai  ty 
of  the  sky-blue  ultra-marine.  While  the  artist  was  paint- 
ing the  story  of  Jesus  Christ  on  the  cloister  walls,  the  prior 
stayed  by  his  side,  holding  the  precious  powder  in  a  little 
bag,  of  which  he  never  let  go.  Under  the  old  man's  eye, 
Pietro  took  from  it  and  dipped  his  brush  covered  with  paint 
into  a  cup  of  water,  before  using  it  on  the  plaster  of  the 
wall.  In  this  manner  he  used  a  great  quantity  of  powder. 
And  the  good  Father,  seeing  the  contents  of  his  bag  rapidly 
growing  less  and  less,  groaned:  'Jesus,  what  a  lot  of  ultra- 
marine it  takes  to  cover  this  white-wash!' 

"When  the  frescoes  were  finished,  and  Perugino  had  re- 
ceived from  the  prior  the  price  agreed  upon,  he  put  into 
his  hand  a  packet  of  blue  powder.  'This  is  yours.  Father ' 


96  THE  RED  LILY 

he  said;  'your  ultra-marine,  which  I  took  on  my  brush, 
descended  to  the  bottom  of  my  cup,  from  which  I  abstracted 
it  every  day.  I  give  it  back  to  you.  Now  learn  to  trust 
good  men.'  " 

"Oh!"  said  Therese,  "there  is  nothing  extraordinary  in 
Perugino's  having  been  both  avaricious  and  honest.  It  is 
not  always  self-seeking  persons  who  are  the  most  unscrupu- 
lous. There  are  many  who  are  honest  and  avaricious." 

"Of  course,  darling!"  said  Miss  Bell.  "The  avaricious 
will  owe  no  man  anything,  while  the  prodigal  is  quite  con- 
tent to  have  debts.  He  thinks  little  of  the  money  he  pos- 
sesses, and  still  less  of  what  he  owes.  I  never  said  that 
Pietro  Vannucci  of  Perugia  was  a  dishonest  man.  I  said 
that  he  had  a  hard  heart,  and  that  he  bought  many  houses. 
I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  he  gave  back  the  ultra-marine 
to  the  prior  of  the  Gesuati." 

"As  your  Pietro  was  rich,"  said  Choulette,  "it  was  his  duty 
to  restore  the  ultra-marine.  It  is  incumbent  upon  the  rich 
to  be  honest,  but  not  upon  the  poor." 

At  this  moment  the  butler  was  offering  Choulette  a  silver 
basin ;  and  the  poet  held  out  his  hands  to  receive  the  scented 
water  poured  from  the  ewer.  It  was  a  jug  of  chased  silver 
and  a  basin  with  a  false  bottom,  which,  according  to  an 
ancient  custom,  Miss  Bell  had  passed  round  to  her  guests 
at  the  end  of  a  meal. 

"I  wash  my  hands,"  he  said,  "of  the  harm  that  Madame 
Martin  does  or  may  do  by  her  words  or  in  any  other 
manner." 

And  he  rose,  furious,  and  followed  Miss  Bell  who  left 
the  table  on  the  arm  of  Professor  Arrighi. 

In  the  drawing-room,  while  coffee  was  being  served,  she 
said: 

"Monsieur  Choulette,  why  must  you  be  ever  condemn- 
ing us  to  the  barbaric  sadness  of  equality?  The  flute  of 
Daphnis  would  not  produce  such  sweet  music  if  it  were 
made  of  seven  reeds  of  equal  length.  You  would  destroy 
those  fine  harmonies  of  master  and  servant,  aristocrat  and 
artisan.  Oh!  Monsieur  Choulette,  you  are  a  barbarian. 
You  have  pity  upon  the  poor,  but  you  have  no  pity  for 
the  divine  beauty  you  are  driving  from  the  world.  You 


THE  RED  LILY  97 

are  driving  her  away,  Monsieur  Choulette;  she  is  naked  and 
in  tears,  you  turn  from  her.  Be  assured,  she  will  cease 
to  dwell  upon  the  earth  when  mankind  becomes  weak,  puny, 
and  ignorant.  To  banish  from  society  the  grouping  of  men 
of  various  ranks,  from  the  humble  to  the  great,  is  to  be 
the  enemy  of  rich  and  poor  alike;  it  is  to  be  the  enemy 
of  the  whole  human  race." 

"The  enemies  of  humanity!"  replied  Choulette,  dropping 
a  knob  of  sugar  into  his  coffee,  "by  that  name  did  the 
hard-hearted  Roman  call  the  Christians  who  preached  to 
him  of  love." 

Meanwhile  Dechartre,  sitting  by  Madame  Martin,  was 
questioning  her  concerning  her  artistic  tastes,  supporting, 
directing,  animating  her  admiration,  stimulating  it  some- 
times with  an  affectionate  abruptness,  desiring  that  she 
should  see  all  that  he  had  seen,  and  love  all  that  he  had 
loved. 

He  wanted  her  to  go  into  the  garden  in  the  delicate  dawn 
of  spring.  In  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  her  on  the  grand 
terraces;  already  he  beheld  the  sunlight,  playing  on  her 
neck  and  in  her  hair,  and  the  bay-trees  casting  a  shadow 
over  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that  the  earth  and 
sky  of  Florence  existed  only  as  a  background  for  this 
woman. 

He  congratulated  her  on  the  simplicity  of  her  dress,  on 
the  lines  of  her  figure  and  her  grace,  on  the  charming 
ease  of  her  every  movement.  He  liked,  he  said,  those 
supple,  graceful,  flowing  gowns  that  one  sees  so  seldom  and 
never  forgets. 

She  had  received  many  compliments,  but  never  any  that 
had  given  her  greater  pleasure.  She  knew  that  she  dressed 
well,  with  a  pronounced  but  unerring  taste.  But  no  man, 
except  her  father,  had  ever  given  her  the  praise  of  a  con- 
noisseur. She  had  believed  men  capable  of  appreciating 
the  general  effect  of  dress  without  understanding  its  mi- 
nute details.  Some,  who  were  said  to  understand  chiffons, 
disgusted  her  by  an  effeminate  air  and  doubtful  taste.  She 
resigned  herself  to  seeing  her  dress  appreciated  only  by 
women,  whose  judgment  was  warped  by  petty  malice  and 
envy.  The  masculine  artistic  admiration  of  Dechartre  sur- 


98  THE  RED  LILY 

prised  and  pleased  her.  She  received  his  praise  with  delight, 
and  never  thought  of  considering  it  too  familiar  and  almost 
indiscreet. 

"Then  you  take  an  interest  in  dress,  Monsieur 
Dechartre?" 

No,  he  seldom  looked  at  it.  There  are  so  few  well- 
dressed  women,  even  now  when  they  dress  as  well  and 
perhaps  better  than  ever  before.  It  gave  him  no  pleasure 
to  look  at  walking  bundles.  But  to  a  woman  whose  figure 
presented  good  lines  and  who  walked  rhythmically  he  felt 
grateful. 

He  continued  in  a  slightly  higher  voice: 

"I  can  never  think  of  a  woman  carefully  adorning  her- 
self every  day,  without  being  reminded  of  the  lesson  she 
teaches  us  artists.  It  is  for  so  short  a  time  that  she  dresses 
and  arranges  her  hair;  but  her  labour  is  not  wasted.  Like 
her,  we  ought  to  adorn  life  without  thinking  of  the  future. 
To  paint,  to  carve,  to  write  for  posterity  is  mere  empty 
pride." 

"Monsieur  Dechartre,"  asked  Prince  Albertinelli,  "how 
do  you  think  a  mauve  gown  with  silver  flowers  would  be- 
come Miss  Bell?" 

"As  for  me,"  said  Choulette,  "I  am  so  little  concerned 
with  any  earthly  future  that  I  have  written  my  finest  poems 
on  cigarette  papers.  They  perish  easily  and  my  verses 
retain  only  a  kind  of  metaphysical  existence." 

He  piqued  himself  on  this  air  of  indifference  towards  his 
own  co  ipositions.  In  reality  he  had  never  lest  a  single 
line  of  his  writings.  Dechartre  was  more  sincere.  He 
did  not  desire  posthumous  fame.  Miss  Bell  blamed  him 
for  it. 

"Life  to  be  full  and  great  must  contain  the  past  and 
the  future,  Monsieur  Dechartre.  We  must  produce  our 
poetry  and  our  works  of  art  in  memory  of  those  who 
are  dead  and  looking  forward  to  those  who  will  follow  us. 
Thus  we  partake  of  what  was,  what  is,  and  what  will  be. 
You  do  not  wish  to  be  immortal.  Monsieur  Dechartre.  Be- 
"•ire  lest  God  grant  your  desire." 

He  replied: 

"It  is  enough  for  me  to  live  for  the  moment." 


THE  RED  LILY  99 

And  he  took  his  leave,  promising  to  return  on  the  mor- 
row to  take  Madame  Martin  to  the  Brancacci  Chapel. 

An  hour  later  Therese  was  lying  in  a  room,  furnished 
in  aesthetic  style,  hung  with  tapestry,  on  which  lemon-trees, 
bearing  golden  fruit  of  immense  size,  formed  a  kind  of 
fairy  forest.  Her  head  was  on  the  pillow  and  over  it  she 
had  thrown  her  beautiful  bare  arm.  She  was  dreaming  in 
the  lamplight.  Passing  confusedly  before  her  she  beheld 
visions  of  her  new  life:  Vivian  Bell  and  her  bells;  those 
religious  pictures,  in  which  slight  shadowy  Pre-Raphaelite 
figures,  ladies  and  cavaliers,  appeared  isolated,  indifferent, 
and  rather  sad,  but  all  the  more  human  through  their 
charming  languor;  the  evening  at  the  Fiesole  villa,  Prince 
Albertinelli,  Professor  Arrighi,  Choulette,  the  brisk  con- 
versation, the  curious  play  of  ideas,  and  Dechartre  with 
young  eyes  but  rather  worn  countenance,  to  which  his 
swarthy  skin  and  pointed  beard  gave  an  almost  East- 
ern air. 

She  realised  that  he  possessed  a  delightful  imagination, 
a  mind  richer  than  any  she  had  known,  and  a  charm  she 
could  no  longer  resist.  She  had  known  from  the  first  that 
he  was  endowed  with  the  gift  of  pleasing.  She  now  knew 
that  he  wished  to  please.  This  idea  filled  her  with  delight; 
she  shut  her  eyes  as  if  to  retain  it.  Then  suddenly  she 
shuddered. 

In  the  depths  of  her  inner  consciousness  she  felt  a  dull 
blow  and  a  smarting  pain.  She  had  a  sudden  vision  of 
her  lover  in  the  wood,  his  gun  under  his  arm.  He  was 
walking  with  his  firm  regular  step  down  a  long  path.  She 
could  not  see  his  face  and  it  troubled  her.  She  no  longer 
bore  him  any  ill-will.  She  was  not  vexed  with  him  now. 
At  present  she  was  vexed  with  herself.  And  Robert  went 
straight  on  never  turning  his  head,  on  and  on,  till  he  be- 
came a  black  spot  in  the  desolate  wood.  She  felt  that  she 
had  been  abrupt,  hard,  and  capricious  to  leave  him  with- 
out saying  good-bye,  even  without  writing  a  letter.  He 
was  her  lover,  her  one  lover.  She  had  never  had  another. 
"I  should  not  like  him  to  be  unhappy  through  me,"  she 
thought. 

Gradually  she  was  reassured.    It  was  true  that  he  loved 


ioo  THE  RED  LILY 

her;  but  he  was  not  very  sensitive,  and  fortunately  not 
very  quick  to  grow  anxious  and  uneasy.  "He  is  hunting. 
He  is  happy.  He  is  with  his  Aunt  de  Lannoix,  whom  he 
admires.  .  .  ."  She  forgot  her  anxiety  and  gave  herself 
up  to  the  enchanting  deep-seated  gaiety  of  Florence.  At 
the  Uffizi  there  was  a  picture  she  had  not  cared  for  and 
which  Dechartre  admired.  It  was  the  detached  head  of 
Medusa,  a  work  into  which,  the  sculptor  said,  Leonardo 
had  put  all  his  wonderful  power  of  detail  and  delicate 
sense  of  the  deepest  tragedy.  Disappointed  with  herself 
for  not  having  thoroughly  appreciated  it  at  first,  she  wanted 
to  see  it  again. 

She  put  out  her  lamp  and  fell  asleep. 

Towards  morning  she  dreamt  she  met  Robert  Le  Menil 
in  an  empty  church,  that  he  was  wrapped  in  a  fur  coat 
which  was  unfamiliar  to  her.  He  was  waiting  for  her,  but 
they  were  separated  by  a  crowd  of  priests  and  worshippers, 
who  had  suddenly  appeared.  She  did  not  know  what 
became  of  him.  She  had  not  been  able  to  see  his  face 
and  that  alarmed  her.  Awake,  she  heard  at  her  open 
window  a  little  sad  monotonous  cry,  and,  in  the  milky  dawn, 
she  saw  a  swallow  flit  by.  Then,  without  cause  and  with- 
out reason,  she  wept.  With  the  sorrow  of  a  child  she  shed 
tears  over  herself. 


XI 

SHE  rose  early  and  took  delight  in  dressing  carefully 
with  an  art  delicately  disguised.  Her  dressing-room 
was  one  of  Vivian  Bell's  aesthetic  fancies.  With  its  roughly 
glazed  pottery,  it  copper  pitchers  and  tiled  floor,  it  resem- 
bled a  kitchen,  but  a  fairy's  kitchen.  It  was  so  mediaeval 
and  so  uncommon  that  Countess  Martin  had  no  difficulty 
in  imagining  herself  a  fairy  princess.  While  her  maid 
was  doing  her  hair  she  heard  Dechartre  and  Choulette  talk- 
ing underneath  her  window.  She  undid  Pauline's  work  and 
boldly  displayed  the  fine  line  of  the  nape  of  her  neck. 
Then,  having  taken  a  last  look  at  herself  in  the  mirror, 
she  went  down  into  the  garden. 

In  the  garden,  shaded  by  yew  trees  like  some  peaceful 
cemetery,  Dechartre  was  looking  down  on  Florence  and 
repeating  lines  from  Dante: 

"And  when  our  soul,  more  alien  from  the  sphere."  * 

Near  him  Choulette,  sitting  on  the  balustrade,  his  legs 
hanging  and  his  nose  in  his  beard,  was  carving  the  face 
of  Poverty  on  his  wanderer's  staff. 

And  Dechartre  repeated  the  lines  of  the  poem: 

"And  when  our  soul,  more  alien  from  the  sphere 
Of  flesh,  and  less  to  rush  of  hot  thoughts  given, 
As  half-divine  looks  forth  in  visions  clear"; 

In  her  maize-coloured  gown,  shaded  by  her  parasol,  she 
came  along  the  trim  box  hedge.  The  soft  winter  sun  clothed 
her  in  a  pale  golden  light. 

Dechartre  joyfully  bade  her  good  morning. 

She  said: 

"You  are  reciting  lines  I  do  not  know.  Metastasio  is 
the  only  Italian  poet  with  whose  works  I  am  familiar.  The 
professor  who  taught  me  Italian  adored  Metastasio  and 

*  "Purgatory,"  canto  ix.  16.     Plumptre's  Translation. — W.S. 


102  THE  RED  LILY 

did  not  care  for  any  one  else.  When  does  the  mind  become 
divine  in  its  visions?" 

"At  the  break  of  day,  or  it  may  be  also  in  the  dawn  of 
faith  or  of  love." 

Choulette  did  not  think  the  poet  meant  morning  dreams. 
They  leave  so  vivid  and  sometimes  so  painful  an  impres- 
sion on  awaking,  and  they  are  not  dissociated  from  the 
body.  But  Dechartre  had  only  quoted  those  lines  in  his 
rapture  at  the  golden  dawn  which  he  had  seen  that  morn- 
ing on  the  fair  hills.  He  had  long  wondered  about  the 
visions  that  come  to  us  in  the  night,  and  he  had  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  they  proceed  not  from  what  has 
most  occupied  our  minds  during  the  day,  but  from  thoughts 
from  which  we  have  turned  away. 

Then  Therese  recalled  her  dream  that  morning  of  the 
hunter  on  the  long  path  leading  into  the  deep  wood. 

"Yes,"  said  Dechartre,  "at  night  we  see  the  sad  vestiges 
of  what  we  have  neglected  during  the  day.  A  dream  is 
often  the  revenge  of  things  neglected  or  of  persons  deserted ; 
hence  its  unexpectedness  and  sometimes  its  sadness." 

For  a  moment  she  remained  silent  and  thoughtful,  and 
then  she  said: 

"Perhaps  it  is  true." 

Then,  turning  eagerly  to  Choulette,  she  asked  him  i'f 
he  had  finished  carving  the  figure  of  Poverty  on  the  handle 
of  his  walking-stick.  But  Poverty  had  become  a  Pieta, 
and  Choulette  was  pleased  to  call  her  the  Virgin.  He  had 
even  composed  a  quatrain  to  be  written  on  a  scroll  beneath; 
the  quatrain  was  both  didactic  and  moral.  His  style  was 
henceforth  to  be  that  of  the  Ten  Commandments  translated 
into  French  verse.  The  four  lines  were  good  and  simple. 
He  consented  to  repeat  them: 

Prone  'neath  His  Cross,  will  ye 
Not  weep,  love,  hope  with  me? 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Grace 
Refuge  of  all  our  rac^?  * 

*  "Je  pleure  au  pied  de  la  Croix. 
Avec  moi  pleure,  aime  et  crois, 
Sous  cet  arbre  salutaire 
Qui  doit  ombrager  la  terre." 


THE  RED  LILY  103 

As  on  the  day  of  her  arrival,  Therese  leant  against  the 
balustrade  and  looked  far  into  the  distance,  beyond  the 
ocean  of  light,  to  where  rose  the  summits  of  Vallombrosa, 
almost  as  liquid  as  the  clouds. 

Dechartre  was  watching  her.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if 
he  saw  her  for  the  first  time,  such  new  charm  did  he  dis- 
cover on  her  delicate  face,  which  life  and  thought  had  lined, 
but  had  not  robbed  of  their  youthful  grace  and  freshness. 
The  light  that  she  loved  enhanced  her  beauty.  And  she 
was  beautiful  indeed,  bathed  in  that  soft  Florentine  light 
which  glorifies  beautiful  forms  and  fosters  noble  thoughts. 
There  was  a  slight  colour  on  her  finely  moulded  cheeks. 
There  was  a  laugh  in  her  grey-blue  eyes;  and  when  she 
spoke  she  displayed  the  brilliant  whiteness  of  her  teeth. 
In  a  glance  he  appreciated  all  the  graceful  details  of  her 
supple  figure.  With  one  hand  she  held  her  parasol,  with 
the  other  ungloved  she  was  toying  with  some  violets. 
Dechartre  had  a  passion  for  beautiful  hands.  For  him  a 
hand  had  a  character,  a  soul,  a  physiognomy  as  pronounced 
as  a  countenance.  Therese's  hands  delighted  him.  They 
were  at  once  sensual  and  spiritual.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
they  were  bare  from  sheer  voluptuousness.  He  adored  their 
tapering  fingers,  their  pink  nails,  their  slender  skin,  marked 
with  graceful  lines,  and  rising  gently  and  harmoniously  to- 
wards the  knuckles.  He  gazed  entranced  until  she  closed 
them  on  the  handle  of  her  parasol.  Then,  slightly  behind 
her,  he  looked  again.  Her  bust,  her  arms,  graceful  and 
correct  in  line,  her  well-developed  hips,  her  fine  ankles, 
her  whole  figure,  in  the  beautiful  form  of  a  living  amphora, 
pleased  him. 

"That  black  spot  down  there  is  the  Boboli  gardens,  isn't 
it,  Monsieur  Dechartre?  I  saw  them  three  years  ago. 
There  were  hardly  any  flowers  then;  and  yet  I  loved  them 
with  their  great  dark  trees." 

That  she  should  speak,  that  she  should  think,  almost 
astonished  him.  The  clear  tones  of  that  voice  came  upon 
him  as  if  he  had  never  heard  them  before. 

He  answered  in  the  first  words  that  occurred  to  him,  and 
smiled  a  forced  smile,  attempting  to  hide  the  stirrings 
of  passion.  He  was  awkward  and  confused.  She  did  not 


104  THE  RED  LILY 

seem  to  notice  it.  That  deep  husky,  faltering  voice  uncon- 
sciously caressed  her.  She,  like  him,  uttered  common- 
places: 

"What  a  fine  viewl    What  a  lovely  day." 


XII 

IN  the  morning,  with  her  head  upon  a  pillow  embroidered 
with  a  coat  of  arms  in  the  form  of  a  bell,  Therese  was 
meditating  on  what  she  had  seen  on  the  previous  day:  those 
finely  painted  Virgins  surrounded  by  angels,  those  countless 
children,  painted  or  in  sculpture,  all  beautiful,  all  happy, 
singing  simply  through  the  town  their  alleluias  of  grace 
and  beauty.  In  the  famous  Brancacci  Chapel,  before  those 
frescoes  pale  and  gleaming  like  a  divine  dawn,  he  had  talked 
of  Masaccio,  in  such  glowing  words  that  she  seemed  to 
see  the  youth,  master  of  masters,  with  half  open  mouth 
and  dark  blue  eyes,  dying  in  an  ecstasy.  And  she  was 
filled  with  adoration  for  the  marvels  of  that  dawn  more 
delightful  even  than  the  noon-day.  And  for  her  Dechartre 
was  the  soul  of  all  these  magnificent  forms,  the  vivifying 
spirit  of  all  these  good  things.  Through  him  and  in  him 
she  understood  life  and  art.  The  sights  of  the  world  inter- 
ested her  only  so  far  as  they  interested  him. 

How  had  this  sympathy  grown  up  between  them?  She 
did  not  exactly  know.  At  first,  when  Paul  Vence  wished 
to  introduce  him  to  her,  she  had  no  wish  to  know  him, 
no  presentiment  that  she  would  like  him.  She  recalled  the 
beautiful  bronzes  and  fine  wax  figures  signed  with  his  name 
that  she  had  noticed  in  the  Salon  of  the  Champ-de-Mars 
and  at  Durand-Ruel's.  But  she  never  imagined  that  he 
himself  would  be  interesting  or  more  attractive  than  so 
many  artists  and  amateurs  whom  she  invited  to  her  lunch- 
eon parties.  On  their  first  meeting  he  pleased  her;  and  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  attract  him  and  see  him  often.  The 
evening  that  he  dined  at  her  house  she  perceived  that 
her  liking  for  him  was  of  an  intellectual  kind  which  flat- 
tered her  own  amour  propre.  But  soon  afterwards  he  irri- 
tated and  vexed  her  by  appearing  too  self-centred,  too  much 
occupied  with  himself  and  too  little  with  her.  She  would 
have  liked  to  agitate  him.  In  this  dissatisfied  mood,  and 
troubled  by  other  things,  feeling  herself  alone  in  the  world, 


106  THE  RED  LILY 

she  had  met  him  one  evening,  in  front  of  the  Museum  of 
Religions,  and  b"  had  talked  of  Ravenna  and  the  empress 
in  her  tomb,  on  her  golden  chair.  In  the  shades  of  night 
she  had  thought  him  charming,  with  his  soft  voice,  and  his 
pleasing  glance,  but  too  reserved  and  distant.  He  made  her 
feel  ill  at  ea«ve,  and,  at  that  moment,  walking  along  the 
terrace,  by  the  box  hedge,  she  could  not  decide  whether 
she  wanted  *,o  see  him  always  or  never  again. 

Since  she  had  met  him  at  Florence  her  one  delight  was 
to  feel  hire  near  her  and  hear  him  talk.  He  made  her 
life  attractive  by  introducing  into  it  variety,  novelty,  and 
colour.  He  initiated  her  into  the  delicate  delicious  melan- 
choly of  thought.  He  called  into  activity  a  taste  for  pleas- 
ures hitherto  undreamed  of.  Now  she  was  quite  decided 
to  retain  him.  But  how?  She  foresaw  difficulties;  her 
lucid  rrind  and  her  intense  feeling  called  them  all  up  before 
her.  For  a  moment  she  tried  to  deceive  herself:  she  argued 
that  a  dreamer,  an  enthusiast,  wrapped  up  in  the  study  of 
art,  he  had  perhaps  no  violent  passion  for  women,  and 
would  remain  assiduous  without  becoming  exacting.  But 
immediately,  shaking  her  beautiful  head  half  lost  in  the 
ripples  of  her  dark  hair,  she  cast  this  idea  from  her.  If 
Dochartre  were  not  a  lover  then  he  lost  all  his  charm 
f<T  her.  She  dared  not  think  of  the  future.  She  must 
*>ve  in  the  present;  happy,  but  anxious  and  blindfold. 

She  was  meditating  thus  in  the  shadow  broken  by  arrows 
of  light,  when  Pauline  brought  her  letters  with  her  morn- 
ing tea.  She  recognised  Le  Menil's  writing  on  an  envelope, 
stamped  with  the  name  of  his  club  in  the  Rue  Royale.  She 
had  expected  to  receive  this  letter,  and  now,  as  in  her 
childhood  when  the  infallible  clock  struck  the  hour  of  her 
music-lesson,  she  was  merely  surprised  that  what  was  bound 
to  come  had  actually  happened. 

Robert's  letter  was  full  of  just  reproaches.  Why  had 
she  gone  away  without  telling  him,  without  even  leaving 
a  line  of  farewell?  Since  his  return  to  Paris,  every  morn- 
ing he  had  expected  the  letter  which  had  not  arrived.  How 
different  from  last  year,  when,  two  or  three  times  a  week, 
on  awaking,  he  used  to  find  such  nice  letters,  so  well  ex- 
pressed that  he  had  regretted  not  being  able  to  publish 


THE  RED  LIL^V  107 

them.  He  had  become  very  anxious  n-iJ  had  called  at  her 
house. 

"I  was  thunderstruck  to  hear  of  your  departure.  Your 
husband  received  me.  He  told  me,  that,  following  his  adj 
vice,  you  had  gone  to  pass  the  last  weeks  of  winter  at  Miss 
Bell's,  at  Florence.  For  some  time  he  had  noticed  you 
growing  pale  and  thin.  He  had  thought  that  a  change  of 
air  would  do  you  good.  You  had  not  wanted  to  go;  but, 
as  you  became  less  and  less  well,  he  had  succeeded  in 
persuading  you. 

"I  had  not  noticed  that  you  were  growing  thin.  On  the 
contrary  I  thought  you  looking  extremely  well.  Besides 
Florence  is  not  a  winter  resort.  I  can't  understand  your 
departure;  it  troubles  me  very  much.  Write  at  once,  I 
pray  you,  and  reassure  me.  .  .  . 

"I  leave  you  to  imagine  how  pleasant  it  is  for  me  to 
hear  of  your  movements  from  your  husband  and  to  receive 
his  confidences!  He  is  distressed  by  your  absence  and 
regrets  that  his  public  duties  keep  him  in  Paris.  At  the 
club  I  hear  there  is  a  chance  of  his  entering  the  Govern- 
ment. I  am  astonished,  for  it  is  not  usual  for  a  leader 
of  society  to  become  a  Minister." 

Then  he  told  her  of  his  hunting.  He  had  brought  her 
three  fox's  skins,  one  very  fine:  the  coat  of  a  brave  beast, 
he  had  dragged  from  his  den,  that  had  turned  and  bitten 
him  in  the  hand.  "After  all,"  he  said,  "the  creature  was 
standing  on  his  rights." 

At  Paris  he  was  worried.  A  young  cousin  was  standing 
for  election  to  the  club.  He  was  afraid  that  he  would 
be  blackballed.  But  his  candidature  was  already  announced. 
And  at  this  point  he  dared  not  advise  him  to  withdraw;  it 
would  be  assuming  too  great  a  responsibility.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  defeat  would  be  extremely  disagreeable.  He  ended 
his  letter  by  entreating  her  to  write  and  to  return  soon. 

Having  read  the  letter,  she  tore  it  up  slowly,  threw  it 
in  the  fire,  and  sadly,  gloomily,  and  thoughtfully  watched 
it  burn. 

Doubtless  he  was  right.  He  said  what  he  might  be  ex- 
pected to  say;  he  complained  as  he  had  a  right  to  com- 
plain. How  should  she  reply  to  him?  Should  she  prolong 


io8  THE  RED  LILY 

the  quarrel  and  continue  to  sulk?  But  it  was  no  longer 
a  question  of  sulking.  The  subject  of  their  quarrel  was 
so  indifferent  to  her  that  she  must  needs  think  before  she 
could  remember  it.  Oh,  no,  she  had  lost  all  desire  to  vex 
him.  On  the  contrary  she  felt  kindly  towards  him.  The 
realisation  that  he  loved  her  trustfully  and  with  an  un- 
disturbed tranquillity  of  mind  saddened  and  alarmed  her. 
He  had  not  changed.  He  was  the  same  as  before.  But  she 
was  no  longer  the  same.  They  were  separated  now  by 
things  imperceptible  and  yet  as  strong  as  the  vivifying  or 
deadening  effects  of  the  atmosphere.  When  her  maid  came 
to  dress  her  she  had  not  yet  begun  to  write  the  reply. 

She  was  thinking  anxiously:  "He  trusts  me.  His  mind 
is  at  rest."  That  was  what  irritated  her  most.  Simple  per- 
sons mistrustful  neither  of  themselves  nor  of  other  people 
always  irritated  her. 

When  she  went  down  into  the  drawing-room  of  bells, 
she  found  Vivian  Bell  there  writing;  she  said  to  her: 

"Darling,  would  you  like  to  know  what  I  was  doing  while 
I  was  waiting  for  you?  Nothing  and  yet  everything.  I 
was  writing  verses.  Oh!  darling,  poetry  must  be  the  natural 
flowering  of  the  soul." 

Therese  kissed  Miss  Bell,  and,  with  her  head  on  her 
friend's  shoulder,  she  said: 

"May  I  look?" 

"Oh!  yes,  look,  darling.  They  are  verses  written  in  the 
ttyle  of  the  popular  songs  of  your  country." 

And  Therese  read: 

The  milk-white  stone  she  threw 
Pierced  the  lake-waters  blue, 
And  as  its  surface  grew 
Still,  took  a  darker  hue. 
Tihen  she,  the  stone  that  threw, 
Both  shame  and  dolour  knew 
The  load  from  her  heart  to  view 
The  treacherous  waters  through.* 

*  EHe  jeta  la  pierre  blanche 
A  1'eau  du  lac  bleu. 
La  pierre  dans  1'onde  tranquille 
Sombra  peu  a  peu. 


THE  RED  LILY  109 

"The  lines  are  figurative,  Vivian;  explain  them  to 
me." 

"Why  should  I  explain,  why?  A  poetical  figure  may 
have  many  meanings.  The  one  that  you  put  into  it  will 
be  the  true  meaning  for  you.  But  one  is  very  clear,  my 
love:  that  you  must  not  lightly  part  with  your  heart's 
treasure." 

The  carriage  was  ready.  They  started  as  they  had  ap- 
pointed to  visit  the  Albertinelli  Gallery,  in  the  Via  del 
Moro.  The  Prince  expected  them  and  Dechartre  was  to 
meet  them  at  the  Palace.  On  the  way,  as  the  carriage 
glided  over  the  broad  highroad,  Vivian  Bell  talked  in  short, 
disjointed  sentences  uttered  in  a  sing-song  voice.  Thus  she 
gave  expression  to  the  gaiety  of  a  temperament  rare  and 
precious.  As  they  went  down  among  the  pink  and  white 
houses,  with  storied  gardens,  adorned  with  statues  and 
fountains,  she  pointed  out  to  her  friend,  the  villa  half  hid- 
den among  the  pine-trees,  to  which  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  the  Decameron  fled  from  the  plague,  which  was 
ravaging  Florence,  and  amused  themselves  by  telling  stories, 
gallant,  facetious,  or  tragic.  Then  she  disclosed  a  brilliant 
idea  which  had  occurred  to  her  the  day  before. 

"You,  darling,  had  gone  to  the  Carmine  with  M.  Dechar« 
tre.  You  had  left  Madame  Marmet  at  Fiesole.  She  is  a 
nice  old  lady  of  moderate  opinions  and  excellent  manners. 
She  is  full  of  stories  of  distinguished  Parisians.  And  when 
she  tells  them  she  is  like  my  cook,  Pampaloni,  when  he  sends 
up  poached  eggs:  he  does  not  salt  them,  but  he  puts  the 
salt-cellar  by  the  side  of  the  dish.  Madame  Marmet  is 
a  sweet-tongued  old  lady.  But  the  salt  is  there — in  her 
eyes.  It  is  Pampaloni's  dish,  my  love;  and  every  one  sea- 
sons it  to  his  taste.  Oh!  I  am  very  fond  of  Madame  Mar- 
met.  Yesterday,  after  you  had  gone,  I  found  her  sad  and 
lonely  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room.  She  was  thinking 
of  her  husband,  and  her  thoughts  were  sad.  I  said  to  her: 
'Would  you  like  me  to  join  you  in  your  meditations  on  your 

Alors  la  jeteuse  de  pierres 
Eut  honte  et  douleur 
D'avoir  mis  dans  le  lac  perfide 
Le  poids  de  son  cceur. 


i  io  THE  RED  LILY 

husband?  1  shall  be  very  pleased  to  do  so.  I  have  heard 
that  he  was  a  scholar  and  a  member  of  the  Paris  Royal  So- 
ciety. Tell  m  *  about  him.'  She  replied  that  he  was  devoted 
to  the  Etrust  ans  and  had  consecrated  his  whole  life  to 
them.  And,  ,it  once,  darling,  I  venerated  the  memory  of 
this  Monsieui  Marmet  who  lived  for  the  Etruscans.  And 
then  a  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  me.  I  said  to  Madame 
Marmet:  'At  Fiesole,  in  the  Palazzo  Pretorio,  we  have  a 
modest  little  Etruscan  museum.  Come  with  me  and  see  it. 
Will  you?'  She  replied  that  that  was  what  she  wanted  to 
see  more  tlun  anything  in  Italy.  We  went  together  to 
the  Pretorio  Palace;  and  we  saw  a  lioness  with  her  numer- 
ous young  and  little  grotesque  bronze  men,  either  very  fat 
or  very  thin.  The  Etruscans  were  a  people  who  took  their 
pleasures  saaly.  They  used  to  make  caricatures  in  brass. 
But  these  grotesque  figures,  some  with  protruding  stomachs, 
others  with  an  astonished  air,  displaying  bare  bones,  Ma- 
dame Marmet  regarded  with  sorrowful  admiration.  She 
considered  them  as  ...  there  is  an  expressive  French  word 
I  am  trying  to  find  ...  as  the  monuments  and  trophies  of 
M.  Marmet." 

Madame  Martin  smiled.  But  she  was  depressed.  The 
sky  appeared  to  her  dull,  the  streets  ugly,  die  passers-by 
vulgar. 

"Oh!  darling,  the  Prince  will  be  delighted  to  welcome  you 
to  his  palace." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"But  why,  darling,  why?" 

"Because  he  does  not  like  me." 

Vivian  Bell  declared  that  on  the  contrary  the  Prince 
greatly  admired  Countess  Martin. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  the  Albertinelli  Palace.  On 
the  dark  Gothic  fagade  were  bronze  rings  which  in  former 
days,  on  festive  nights  were  used  to  hold  pine  torches. 
At  Florence  these  rings  indicate  the  residences  of  the  most 
illustrious  families.  They  imparted  to  the  palace  an  ag- 
gressively arrogant  air.  Inside  it  appeared  empty,  unused, 
and  neglected.  The  Prince  met  them  and  conducted  them, 
through  unfurnished  reception  rooms,  to  the  gallery.  He 
apologised  for  showing  them  pictures  which  were  not  very 


THE  RED  LILY  in 

pleasing.  The  collection  had  been  made  by  Cardinal  Giulio 
Albertinelli  at  the  time  of  the  vogue  of  Guido  and  Carracci. 
His  ancestor  had  delighted  in  collecting  the  works  of  the 
Bolognese  school.  But  he  would  show  Madame  Martin 
a  few  pictures  which  had  found  favour  with  Miss  Bell; 
among  others  a  Mantegna. 

At  a  glance  Countess  Martin  saw  that  the  pictures  were 
commonplace  and  of  doubtful  authenticity.  She  was  bored 
at  once  by  the  numerous  examples  of  Parrocel,  all  with 
figures  in  armour  mounted  on  white  horses  amid  darkness 
made  visible  by  gleams  of  lurid  light. 

A  footman  brought  in  a  card.  The  Prince  read  aloud 
the  name  of  Jacques  Dechartre.  Just  at  that  moment  he 
had  his  back  towards  his  two  visitors.  His  countenance  as- 
sumed that  expression  of  malicious  vexation  which  is  to 
be  seen  on  the  statues  of  Roman  emperors.  Dechartre  was 
on  the  landing  of  the  state  stair-case. 

The  Prince  advanced  to  meet  him  with  a  languishing 
smile.  He  was  no  longer  Nero,  but  Antinous. 

"Yesterday  I  myself  invited  M.  Dechartre  to  come  to 
the  Albertinelli  Palace,"  said  Miss  Bell  to  the  Prince.  "I 
knew  I  should  give  you  pleasure.  He  wanted  to  see  your 
pictures." 

And  it  was  true  that  Dechartre  had  wished  to  come 
in  order  to  meet  Madame  Martin.  Now  all  four,  they 
were  wandering  past  the  Guidos  and  Albanis. 

Miss  Bell  was  chirping  to  the  Prince  pretty  things  about 
the  old  men  and  virgins  whose  mantles  were  being  blown 
by  a  motionless  tempest.  Dechartre,  pale  and  nervous, 
came  near  to  Therese  and  whispered: 

"This  gallery  is  the  rubbish-heap  on  which  the  picture- 
dealers  of  the  whole  world  have  deposited  the  refuse  of 
their  stock.  And  here  the  Prince  succeeds  in  selling  what 
the  Jews  have  failed  to  dispose  of." 

He  took  her  to  a  Holy  Family,  displayed  on  an  easel 
draped  in  green  velvet  and  bearing  in  the  margin  the 
name  of  Michael  Angelo. 

"I  have  seen  that  Holy  Family  in  picture  shops  at  Lon- 
don, Bale,  and  Paris.  As  the  dealers  have  not  been  able 
to  get  for  it  the  twenty-five  louis  it  is  worth,  they  have 


H2  THE  RED  LILY 

commissioned  the  last  of  the  Albertinelli  to  sell  it  for 
fifty  thousand  francs." 

The  Prince,  seeing  them  whispering  together,  and  guess- 
ing what  they  were  saying,  approached  very  graciously. 

"A  replica  of  this  pitcture  has  been  offered  for  sale  every- 
where. I  don't  maintain  that  this  is  an  original.  But  it 
has  always  been  in  my  family,  and  old  inventories  attribute 
it  to  Michael  Angelo.  That's  all  I  can  say." 

The  Prince  turned  to  Miss  Bell,  who  was  looking  for 
Primitives. 

Dechartre  was  ill  at  ease.  Since  yesterday  he  had  been 
thinking  of  Therese.  He  had  dreamed  of  her  all  night  and 
conjured  up  her  image.  Now  he  found  her  delightful,  but 
delightful  in  a  different  way,  and  even  more  desirable 
than  she  had  appeared  to  him  in  the  visions  of  the  night; 
her  materialised  form  more  irresistibly  attractive,  her  soul 
more  mysterious  and  inscrutable.  She  was  sad;  she  ap- 
peared to  him  cold  and  absent-minded.  He  told  himself 
that  he  was  nothing  to  her,  that  he  was  becoming  im- 
portunate and  ridiculous.  He  grew  gloomy  and  irritable. 
He  murmured  bitterly  in  her  ear: 

"I  had  thought  better  of  it.  I  didn't  want  to  come. 
Then  why  am  I  here?" 

She  understood  immediately  what  he  meant,  that  he 
feared  her  now,  and  so  was  impatient,  shy,  and  awkward. 
She  liked  him  thus,  and  was  grateful  to  him  for  the  agi- 
tation and  desire,  with  which  she  saw  she  inspired  him. 

Her  heart  beat  quickly.  But,  pretending  to  understand 
that  he  was  vexed  at  having  taken  the  trouble  to  come 
and  see  bad  pictures,  she  replied  that  the  gallery  was  in- 
deed very  uninteresting. 

Already  terrified  at  the  idea  of  displeasing  her,  he  was 
reassured  and  really  believed  that,  absent  and  indifferent, 
she  had  not  remarked  either  the  tone  or  the  significance  of 
the  words  that  had  escaped  from  him. 

"Very  uninteresting,"  he  repeated. 

The  Prince,  who  was  entertaining  his  two  visitors  to 
lunch,  invited  their  friend  also.  Dechartre  excused  him- 
self. He  was  going  out,  when,  in  the  great  drawing-room 
empty  of  everything  but  consoles  on  which  were  piled  con- 


THE  RED  LILY  113 

fectioners'  boxes,  he  found  himself  alone  with  Madame 
Martin.  He  had  thought  of  avoiding  her,  now  his  one 
idea  was  when  he  should  see  her  again.  He  reminded  her 
that  on  the  morrow  she  was  to  visit  the  Bargello. 

"You  were  kind  enough  to  say  I  might  come  with  you." 

She  asked  him  if  he  had  not  found  her  dull  and  heavy 
that  day. 

Oh!  no,  but  he  had  thought  her  rather  sad. 

"Alas!"  he  added,  "your  sadness,  your  joys,  I  have  not 
even  the  right  to  know  them." 

She  turned  round  upon  him  quickly,  almost  severely, 
saying: 

"You  surely  don't  think  I  am  going  to  make  you  my 
confidant?" 

And  she  left  him  abruptly. 


XIII 

AFTER  dinner,  in  the  drawing-room  of  bells,  under  the 
lamps,  the  deep  shades  of  which  permitted  but  a  half 
light  to  reach  the  long-handed  Virgins  of  Sienna,  kind  Ma- 
dame Marmet  was  warming  herself  at  the  stove  with  a 
white  cat  on  her  knee.  The  evening  was  cold.  Madame 
Martin  was  smiling  happily,  in  spite  of  fatigue,  and  gaz- 
ing mentally  at  the  purple  hill-tops  in  the  clear  atmosphere 
and  at  the  ancient  oaks  twisting  their  huge  branches  across 
the  road.  With  Miss  Bell,  Dechartre,  and  Madame  Marmet 
she  had  been  to  the  Certosa  of  Ema.  And  now,  in  the 
intoxication  of  the  day's  memories,  she  forgot  the  cares  of 
two  days  ago — importunate  letters,  reproaches  from  a  dis- 
tance; and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  there  were  nothing  in 
the  world  but  carved  and  painted  cloisters,  with  a  well  in 
the  grass-grown  court,  red  roofed  villages,  and  roads,  where, 
soothed  by  flattering  words,  she  had  watched  the  dawn 
of  spring.  Dechartre  had  just  roughly  modelled  a  little 
Beatrice  in  wax  for  Miss  Bell.  Vivian  was  painting  angels. 
Lazily  leaning  over  her,  in  an  effeminate  pose,  Prince  Alber- 
tinelli  was  stroking  his  beard  and  casting  languishing 
glances  around  him. 

Replying  to  a  remark  of  Vivian  Bell's  on  marriage  and 
love: 

"A  woman  must  choose,"  he  said.  "With  a  man  whom 
women  like  she  is  never  at  rest.  With  a  man  whom  women 
do  not  like,  she  is  never  happy." 

"Darling,"  asked  Miss  Bell,  "which  lot  would  you  choose 
for  a  very  dear  friend?" 

"Vivian,  I  should  wish  my  friend  to  be  happy,  I  should 
wish  her  also  to  be  free  from  anxiety.  And  she  would  wish 
to  be  so  and  yet  to  hate  treachery,  humiliating  suspicion, 
and  mean  mistrust." 

"But,  darling,  since  the  Prince  said  that  a  woman  could 
not  at  once  enjoy  happiness  and  peace  of  mind,  say  which 
you  would  choose  for  your  friend." 

"4 


TH£  RED  LILY  115 

"One  does  not  choose,  Vivian,  one  does  not  choose. 
Don't  make  me  say  what  I  think  of  marriage." 

At  this  moment  Choulette  appeared,  with  the  magnifi- 
cent air  of  one  of  those  beggars  who  honour  the  gates 
of  little  towns.  He  had  just  been  playing  cards  with 
peasants  in  a  Fiesole  wine-shop. 

"Here  is  M.  Choulette,"  said  Miss  Bell.  "He  will  tell 
us  what  to  think  of  marriage.  I  am  ready  to  listen  to 
him  as  to  an  oracle.  He  does  not  see  what  we  see,  and 
he  sees  what  we  do  not  see.  Monsieur  Choulette,  what  do 
you  think  of  marriage?" 

He  sat  down  and  raised  a  Socratic  finger. 

"Do  you  speak,  Mademoiselle,  of  the  solemn  union  be- 
tween man  and  woman?  In  this  sense  marriage  is  a  sac- 
rament. Hence  it  is  nearly  always  sacrilege.  As  for  civil 
marriage,  that  is  a  mere  formality.  The  importance  at- 
tached to  it  by  present  day  society  is  a  folly  which  would 
have  appeared  laughable  to  women  of  the  old  regime.  We 
owe  this  prejudice  with  many  others  to  that  bourgeois 
movement,  to  the  rise  of  financiers  and  lawyers,  which  is 
termed  the  Revolution  and  which  seems  admirable  to  those 
who  profit  by  it.  It  is  the  fruitful  mother  of  all  foolish- 
ness. Every  day  for  a  century  she  has  been  bringing  forth 
new  absurdities.  Civil  marriage  is  nothing  but  one  of 
many  registrations,  instituted  by  the  state  in  order  that  it 
may  be  informed  concerning  the  condition  of  its  citizens: 
for  in  a  civilised  state  every  one  must  have  his  label.  And 
of  what  value  are  all  these  labels  in  the  eyes  of  the  Son 
of  God?  Morally,  this  entry  in  a  register  is  not  even 
enough  to  induce  a  woman  to  take  a  lover.  Who  would 
scruple  to  break  an  oath  sworn  before  a  mayor?  In  order 
to  taste  the  true  joys  of  adultery  one  must  be  pious." 

"But,  sir,"  said  Therese,  "we  have  been  married  at 
church." 

Then  in  a  tone  of  deep  sincerity,  she  added: 

"I  cannot  understand  how  any  man  or  woman,  having 
attained  to  years  of  discretion,  can  commit  the  folly  of 
marriage." 

The  Prince  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  He  was  quick 
witted,  but  he  was  incapable  of  believing  that  any  one 


ii6  THE  RED  LILY 

ever  spoke  disinterestedly,  merely  to  express  general  ideas 
and  without  some  definite  object.  He  imagined  that 
Countess  Martin  had  discovered  his  scheme  and  determined 
to  thwart  it.  And,  as  already  he  was  thinking  of  defending 
himself  and  taking  his  revenge,  he  ogled  her  and  addressed 
her  with  affectionate  gallantry. 

"You,  Madame,  display  the  pride  of  all  beautiful  and 
intelligent  Frenchwomen,  who  chafe  beneath  the  yoke. 
Frenchwomen  love  liberty,  and  not  one  of  them  is  worthier 
of  it  than  you.  I  myself  have  lived  a  little  in  France. 
I  have  known  and  admired  the  fashionable  society  of  Paris 
in  drawing-rooms,  at  dinner  tables,  in  public  assemblies, 
and  sports.  But  among  our  mountains,  beneath  our  olive- 
trees,  we  relapse  into  rusticity.  We  return  to  our  country 
manners,  and  marriage  seems  to  us  a  sweet  romantic  idyll." 

Vivian  Bell  examined  the  model  which  Dechartre  had  left 
on  the  table. 

"Oh!  that  is  the  living  image  of  Beatrice,  I  am  sure. 
And  do  you  know,  Monsieur  Dechartre,  there  are  wicked 
men  who  say  that  Beatrice  never  existed?" 

Choulette  declared  that  he  was  one  of  those  wicked  men. 
He  did  not  believe  that  Beatrice  existed  any  more  than 
those  other  ladies  in  whose  personalities  the  old  love  poets 
expressed  some  ridiculously  subtle  scholastic  idea. 

Intolerant  of  any  praise  not  bestowed  on  himself,  jealous 
of  Dante,  and  of  the  whole  universe,  and  also  a  keen  man 
of  letters,  he  thought  he  had  discovered  a  joint  in  the 
amour,  and  struck: 

"I  suspect,"  he  said,  "that  the  young  sister  of  the  angels 
never  lived  except  in  the  dry  imagination  of  the  illustrious 
poet.  Even  there  she  appears  as  a  pure  allegory,  or  rather 
a  mathematical  calculation  or  an  astrological  exercise. 
Dante,  who  between  ourselves  was  a  good  doctor  of  Bo- 
logna, and  had  several  bees  in  his  poked  bonnet,  believed 
in  the  virtue  of  numbers.  This  passionate  geometrician 
dreamt  in  figures,  and  his  Beatrice  is  the  flower  of  his  arith- 
metic. That's  all!" 

And  he  lit  his  pipe. 

Vivian  Bell  protested: 

'Oh!  don't  talk  like  that,  Monsieur  Choulette.    You  hurt 


THE  RED  LILY  117 

me.  If  our  friend  M.  Gebhart  heard  you,  he  would  be  very 
angry.  To  punish  you,  Prince  Albertinelli  shall  read  you 
the  canto  in  which  Beatrice  explains  the  spots  in  the  moon. 
Take  the  Divina  Commedia,  Eusebio.  It  is  that  white 
book  on  the  table.  Open  it  and  read." 

During  the  reading  under  the  lamp,  Dechartre,  sitting 
on  the  sofa  near  Countess  Martin,  spoke  enthusiastically 
of.  Dante  in  whispers,  calling  him  the  greatest  sculptor 
among  poets.  He  reminded  Therese  of  the  picture  they 
had  seen  together  two  days  ago,  at  Santa  Maria,  on  the 
Senates'  door,  a  half-effaced  fresco,  in  which  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  distinguish  the  poet  with  his  laurel-wreathed  hood, 
Florence,  and  the  seven  circles.  Enough  of  .it  remained 
however  to  enrapture  the  artist.  But  she  had  not  been 
able  to  distinguish  anything;  it  had  not  appealed  to  her. 
And  then  she  confessed  that  Dante  was  too  gloomy  and 
attracted  her  but  little.  Dechartre,  who  had  grown  accus- 
tomed to  her  sharing  all  his  poetical  and  artistic  ideas, 
felt  surprised  and  vexed.  He  said  aloud: 

"There  are  things  both  great  and  strong  that  you  do  not 
realise." 

Miss  Bell,  raising  her  head,  asked  what  were  those  things 
that  darling  did  not  realise;  and,  when  she  heard  that  one 
was  the  genius  of  Dante,  she  exclaimed  with  simulated 
wrath: 

"Ohl  don't  you  honour  the  father,  the  master  worthy 
of  all  praise,  the  River  God?  I  don't  like  you  any  more, 
darling.  I  detest  you." 

And,  as  a  reproach  to  Choulette  and  Countess  Martin,  she 
recalled  the  piety  of  that  Florentine  citizen  who  took  from 
the  altar  the  candles  lit  in  honour  of  Jesus  Christ  and 
placed  them  before  Dante's  bust 

After  this  interruption  the  Prince  had  resumed  his 
reading: 

"Within  'itself  the  ever-during  pearl 
Received  us ;"  * 

Dechartre  insisted  on  wishing  to  make  Therese  admire 
what  she  did  not  understand.  For  her  sake  certainly  he 

*  "Paradise,"  Canto  ii.     Gary's  Translation. — W.S. 


ii8  THE  RED  LILY 

would  have  sacrificed  Dante  and  all  the  poets,  with  the 
rest  of  the  universe.  But  by  her  side,  in  the  ardour  of  his 
desire,  beholding  her  tranquil,  he  was  irritated  by  her 
smiling  beauty.  He  felt  bound  to  impose  on  her  his  ideas, 
his  artistic  passions,  even  his  fancies  and  caprices.  In  a 
low  voice  and  in  quick  argumentative  words  he  remonstrated 
with  her. 

"How  vehement  you  are,"  she  said. 

Then  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  in  a  passionate  voice  which 
ne  vainly  sought  to  moderate: 

"You  must  take  my  soul  with  me.  It  would  give  me  no 
joy  to  win  you  with  a  soul  that  was  not  my  own." 

At  these  words  there  passed  over  Therese  a  little  shudder 
af  fear  and  joy. 


XIV 

next  day,  on  awaking,  she  told  herself  that  she 
JL  must  answer  Robert's  letter.  It  was  raining.  Lan- 
guidly she  listened  to  the  raindrops  falling  on  the  terrace. 
With  thoughtful  and  delicate  taste,  Vivian  Bell  had  had 
the  table  furnished  with  artistic  writing  materials:  sheets 
of  paper  in  imitation  of  the  parchment  of  missals,  and 
others  pale  violet  glistening  with  silver;  celluloid  penholders, 
white  and  light,  requiring  to  be  used  like  brushes;  and 
purple  ink,  turning  on  the  page  into  an  azure  shot  with 
gold.  Such  precious  and  unusual  equipments  irritated 
Therese,  who  considered  them  out  of  keeping  with  the  sim- 
ple direct  letter  she  wanted  to  write.  When  she  perceived  that 
the  name  of  "friend,"  by  which  she  addressed  Robert  in 
the  first  line,  cut  a  curious  figure  on  the  silvered  paper, 
outlined  in  shades  of  dove  colour  and  mother-of-pearl,  she 
half  smiled.  She  found  the  first  sentences  difficult.  The 
rest  she  hurried  over.  She  wrote  at  length  of  Vivian  Bell 
and  Prince  Albertinelli,  a  little  of  Choulette,  and  said  that 
she  had  met  Dechartre,  who  was  passing  through  Florence. 
She  praised  a  few  pictures  in  the  museums,  but  without 
enthusiasm  and  merely  to  fill  the  pages.  She  knew  that 
Robert  did  not  understand  pictures,  that  the  only  one 
he  admired  was  a  little  cuirassier  by  Detaille,  bought  at 
Goupil's.  In  her  mind's  eye  she  saw  once  more  that  little 
cuirassier,  which  he  had  proudly  shown  her  one  day,  in 
his  bedroom  near  the  mirror,  underneath  his  family  por- 
traits. Looked  at  from  a  distance  it  all  seemed  mean,  weari- 
some, and  sad.  She  ended  her  letter  with  a  few  kind 
friendly  words  which  were  sincere.  She  had  really  never 
before  felt  so  calmly  benignant  towards  her  lover.  In  four 
pages  she  had  said  little  and  implied  less.  She  had  merely 
told  him  that  she  would  stay  another  month  at  Flor- 
ence, where  the  air  was  doing  her  good.  Afterwards  she 
wrote  to  her  father,  her  husband,  and  Princess  Seniavine, 
With  her  letters  in  her  hand  she  went  downstairs.  In  the 


120  THE  RED  LILY 

hall  she  placed  three  of  them  on  the  silver  salver  intended 
for  letters.  Mistrusting  Madame  Marmet's  curious  eyes 
she  put  Le  Menil's  letter  in  her  pocket,  intending  to  post 
it  herself  when  out  walking. 

Almost  immediately  Dechartre  arrived  to  go  with  the 
three  friends  into  the  town.  While  he  was  waiting  for 
a  moment  in  the  hall  he  noticed  the  letters  in  the  salver. 

Without  believing  in  the  slightest  in  the  reading  of  char- 
acter by  means  of  handwriting,  he  became  aware  of  the 
form  of  the  letters,  which  assumed  a  certain  grace  as  if 
they  were  a  kind  of  drawing.  Because  it  was  a  memorial, 
a  sort  of  relic  of  Therese,  her  writing  charmed  him,  and 
he  appreciated  also  its  striking  frankness  and  bold  sim- 
plicity with  an  admiration  entirely  sensual.  He  looked  at 
the  addresses  without  reading  them. 

That  morning  they  visited  Santa  Maria  Novella,  where 
Countess  Martin  had  been  already  with  Madame  Marmet. 
But  Miss  Bell  had  reproached  them  with  not  having  seen 
the  beautiful  Ginevra  de'  Benci,  in  a  fresco  in  the  choir. 
"You  must  see  that  figure  of  the  dawn  in  the  fine  morning 
light,"  said  Vivian.  While  the  poetess  and  Therese  were 
talking  together,  Dechartre,  attached  to  Madame  Marmet, 
was  listening  patiently  to  anecdotes  of  academicians  dining 
with  fashionable  ladies,  and  was  sympathising  with  the 
good  lady  in  her  vain  endeavours  to  procure  a  tulle  veil. 
She  could  not  find  any  to  her  liking  in  the  Florence  shops, 
and  she  longed  for  the  Rue  du  Bac. 

Coming  out  of  the  church  they  passed  the  booth  of 
the  cobbler  whom  Choulette  had  adopted  as  his  master. 
The  good  man  was  patching  a  countryman's  boots.  The 
pot  of  basil  was  at  his  side,  and  the  sparrow  with  the 
wooden  leg  chirped  close  by. 

Madame  Martin  asked  the  old  man  if  he  were  quite  well, 
if  he  had  enough  work  to  do,  and  if  he  were  happy.  To 
all  these  questions  he  replied  the  charming  Italian  "Yes," 
the  5*  coming  musically  from  his  toothless  mouth.  She 
made  him  tell  them  his  sparrow's  story.  One  day  the  poor 
little  creature  had  put  his  foot  into  the  boiling  wax. 

"I  made  my  little  friend  a  wooden  leg  out  of  a  match, 
and  now  he  is  able  to  perch  on  my  shoulder  as  of  old." 


THE  RED  LILY  121 

"He  is  a  kind  old  man,"  said  Miss  Bell,  "who  teaches 
M.  Choulette  wisdom.  At  Athens  there  was  a  cobbler, 
named  Simon,  who  wrote  works  on  philosophy  and  was 
the  friend  of  Socrates.  I  have  always  thought  M.  Chou- 
lette resembled  Socrates." 

Therese  asked  the  shoemaker  to  tell  them  his  name  and 
his  story.  His  name  was  Serafino  Stoppini  and  he  came 
from  Stia.  He  was  old.  His  life  had  been  full  of  trouble. 

He  put  back  his  spectacles  on  to  his  forehead,  revealing 
his  blue  kindly  eyes,  growing  dim  beneath  their  reddened 
lids: 

"I  had  a  wife  and  children,  now  I  am  alone.  I  have 
known  things,  which  now  I  have  forgotten." 

Miss  Bell  and  Madame  Marmet  had  gone  to  buy  the 
veil. 

"His  tools,  a  handful  of  nails,  the  tub  in  which  he 
soaks  his  leather,  and  a  pot  of  basil  are  all  he  has  hi 
the  world,"  thought  Therese,  "and  yet  he  is  happy." 

"This  plant  smells  sweet,  and  soon  it  will  flower,"  she 
said. 

"If  the  poor  little  thing  flowers,  it  will  die,"  he  replied. 

When  she  went  away,  Therese  left  a  coin  on  the  table. 

Dechartre  was  near  her.  Seriously,  almost  sternly,  he 
said  to  her: 

"You  knew  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  and  waited. 

He  concluded: 

".  .  .  that  I  love  you." 

For  a  moment  she  continued  to  look  at  him  silently 
with  bright  eyes  and  quivering  lids.  Then  she  bowed 
her  head  as  a  sign  of  affirmation.  And,  without  his  at- 
tempting to  detain  her,  she  went  towards  Miss  Bell  and 
Madame  Marmet,  who  were  waiting  at  the  end  of  the 
street 


XV 

ON  leaving  Dechartre,  Therese  went  to  lunch  with  her 
friend  and  Madame  Marmet  at  the  house  of  an  old 
Florentine  lady,  whom  Victor-Emmanuel  had  loved  when 
he  was  Duke  of  Savoy.  For  thirty  years  she  had  never 
once  quitted  her  palace  on  the  Arno,  where  painted  and 
powdered,  wearing  a  violet  wig,  she  played  upon  the  guitar 
in  her  great  white  halls.  She  received  the  highest  society 
in  Florence,  and  Miss  Bell  frequently  went  to  see  her. 
During  lunch,  this  recluse  of  eighty-seven  questioned  Coun- 
tess Martin  concerning  the  fashionable  Paris  world,  the 
life  of  which  she  followed  in  newspapers  and  conversation 
with  a  frivolity  which  was  rendered  august  by  its  persist- 
ence. In  her  solitude  she  continued  to  cherish  a  respect  and 
adoration  for  pleasure. 

Coming  out  of  the  palazzo,  in  order  to  avoid  the  wind, 
which  was  blowing  across  the  river,  the  keen  libeccio,  Miss 
Bell  took  her  friends  through  the  old  narrow  streets,  lined 
with  houses  of  dark  stone,  suddenly  opening  on  a  broad 
space  where  a  hill  with  three  slender  trees  stands  forth 
in  the  clear  atmosphere.  As  they  went,  Vivian  pointed  out 
to  her  friend,  on  sordid  facades  from  which  red  rags  were 
hanging,  some  precious  statue,  a  Virgin,  a  lily,  a  St.  Cath- 
erine beneath  a  scroll  of  leaves.  They  walked  down  the 
little  streets  of  the  ancient  city  as  far  as  the  church  of  Or 
San  Michele,  where  it  had  been  agreed  that  Dechartre 
should  meet  them. 

Therese  was  thinking  of  him  now  with  intense  interest. 
Madame  Marmet  was  bent  on  finding  a  veil;  she  had  been 
encouraged  to  hope  that  there  might  be  one  on  the  Corso. 
Her  errand  reminded  her  of  the  absent-mindedness  of  M. 
Lagrange  who,  one  day,  when  he  was  lecturing,  took  from 
his  pocket  a  veil  with  gold  beads  and  wiped  his  forehead 
with  it,  mistaking  it  for  his  handkerchief.  His  astonished 
hearers  giggled.  It  was  a  veil  belonging  to  his  niece,  Made- 
moiselle Jeanne  Michot,  who  had  confided  it  to  his  care 

172 


THE  RED  LILY  123 

when  he  had  taken  her  to  the  theatre  on  the  previous 
evening.  And  Madame  Marmet  explained  how,  finding  it  in 
his  overcoat  pocket,  he  had  taken  it  with  him,  intending 
to  give  it  back  to  his  niece,  and  how,  by  mistake,  he  had 
unfolded  it  and  waved  it  before  his  smiling  audience. 

The  name  of  Lagrange  reminded  Therese  of  the  comet 
predicted  by  the  scholar,  and  she  said  to  herself  with  a 
sad  irony,  that  now  was  the  time  for  it  to  come  and  end 
the  world  and  relieve  her  from  embarrassment.  But,  above 
the  beautiful  walls  of  the  old  church,  she  beheld  the  sky 
gleaming  and  cruelly  blue,  swept  by  the  wind  blowing  in 
from  the  sea. 

Miss  Bell  directed  her  attention  to  one  of  the  bronze 
statues,  which,  in  carved  niches,  adorn  the  fagade  of  the 
church. 

"Look,  darling,  how  proud  and  young  that  St.  George 
is.  St.  George  used  to  be  a  girl's  ideal  knight.  You  remem- 
ber how  Juliet  cried  when  she  saw  Romeo:  'What  a  hand- 
some St.  George!' "  * 

But  darling  thought  he  looked  conventional,  common- 
place, and  obstinate.  At  that  moment,  she  remembered  the 
letter  in  her  pocket. 

"I  think  there  is  M.  Dechartre,"  said  kind  Madame 
Marmet. 

He  had  been  looking  for  them  in  the  church,  near  Or- 
cagna's  shrine.  He  ought  to  have  remembered  how  irre- 
sistible Miss  Bell  always  found  Donatello's  St.  George. 
He  also  admired  the  famous  figure.  But  the  frank  less 
conventional  figure  of  St.  Mark  appealed  to  him  more. 
They  might  see  it  in  its  niche  on  the  left,  near  that  little 
street,  overspanned  by  a  massive  arched  buttress,  near  the 
old  House  of  the  Wool-staplers. 

As  they  were  approaching  the  statue,  Therese  saw  a 
letter-box  in  the  wall  of  the  narrow  street  at  the  end 
of  which  stood  the  saint.  Meanwhile  Dechartre,  standing 
so  as  to  have  a  good  view  of  his  St.  Mark,  was  speaking 
of  him  as  if  he  were  an  intimate  friend. 

"I  always  come  to  him  before  going  anywhere  else  in 

*  I  have  been  unable  to  discover  this  reference  in  Shake- 
speare's Romeo  ind  Juliet. — W.S. 


124  THE  RED  LILY 

Florence.  Only  once  did  I  fail.  But  he  will  forgive  me; 
he  is  an  excellent  man.  He  is  not  appreciated  by  the  ma- 
jority and  attracts  little  attention.  But  I  delight  in  his 
company.  He  is  alive.  I  can  understand  why  Donatello, 
after  having  created  his  soul,  cried:  'Mark,  why  don't  you 
speak?' ' 

Madame  Marmet,  tired  of  admiring  St.  Mark  and  feel- 
ing nipped  by  the  libeccio,  carried  away  Miss  Bell  to  help 
her  buy  the  veil  in  the  Via  dei  Calzaioli. 

They  left  "darling"  and  Dechartre  alone  to  continue 
their  worship  of  St.  Mark.  They  arranged  to  meet  at 
the  milliner's. 

"I  have  always  loved  him,"  continued  the  sculptor,  "be- 
cause I  recognise  here  more  than  in  the  St.  George,  the 
hand  and  soul  of  Donatello,  who  was  all  his  life  a  poor 
and  honest  workman.  And  to-day  I  love  him  more  in- 
tensely, because,  in  his  venerable  touching  candour,  he 
reminds  me  of  the  old  cobbler  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  to 
whom  you  were  talking  so  sweetly  this  morning." 

"Ah!"  she  said.  "I  have  forgotten  his  name.  We  and 
M.  Choulette  call  him  Quentin  Matsys  because  he  reminds 
us  of  the  old  men  that  artist  painted." 

As  they  turned  the  church  corner  to  inspect  the  fagade 
opposite  the  old  Wood-staplers'  House,  bearing  the  heraldic 
lamb  on  its  red-tiled  gable,  she  found  herself  close  to  the 
letter-box,  so  covered  with  grime  and  rust  that  it  looked 
as  if  the  postman  never  cleared  it.  She  slipped  in  her 
letter,  under  the  ingenuous  eyes  of  St.  Mark. 

Dechartre  saw  her  and  immediately  felt  pierced  to  the 
heart.  He  tried  to  talk,  to  laugh,  but  he  could  not  forget 
the  gloved  hand  posting  the  letter.  He  remembered  having 
seen  Therese's  letters  in  the  morning  on  the  hall  table. 
Why  had  she  not  put  that  one  with  the  others?  It  was 
not  difficult  to  guess. 

He  stood  still,  lost  in  thought,  gazing  vacantly.  He  tried 
to  reassure  himself:  perhaps  it  was  only  an  unimportant 
letter  she  wanted  to  hide  from  Madame  Marmet's  irritat- 
ing curiosity. 

"Monsieur  Dechartre,  it  must  be  time  for  us  to  go  and 
ffiv  friends  at  the  milliner's  on  the  Corso." 


THE  RED  LILY  125 

Perhaps  she  was  writing  to  Madame  Schmoll  who  had 
quarrelled  with  Madame  Marmet.  And  immediately  he 
realised  the  improbability  of  such  suppositions. 

It  was  quite  clear.  She  had  a  lover.  She  was  writing 
to  him.  Perhaps  she  was  saying:  "I  have  seen  Dechartre 
to-day,  the  poor  fellow  is  in  love  with  me."  But  whatever 
she  wrote,  she  had  a  lover.  He  had  never  dreamt  of  such 
a  thing.  The  idea  of  her  belonging  to  another  caused  him 
agony  of  soul  and  body.  And  the  vision  of  that  hand, 
that  little  hand  posting  the  letter,  remained  before  his 
eyes  and  seemed  to  burn  them. 

She  could  not  imagine  why  he  had  suddenly  become  silent 
and  gloomy.  But  she  guessed  at  once,  when  she  saw  him 
look  anxiously  at  the  letter-box.  She  thought  it  strange 
that  without  having  the  right  he  should  be  jealous;  but 
it  did  not  displease  her. 

When  they  reached  the  Corso,  in  the  distance  they  saw 
Miss  Bell  and  Madame  Marmet  coming  out  of  the  milliner's. 

Dechartre  said  to  Therese  in  a  voice  at  once  imperious 
and  entreating: 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  must  see  you  alone; 
come  to-morrow  evening  at  six  o'clock  to  the  Lungarno 
Acciajoli." 

She  said  nothing. 


XVI 

II  7HEN,  wrapped  in  her  rough  coat,  she  reached  the 
V  V  Lungarno  Acciajoli,  about  half-past  six,  Dechartre 
welcomed  her  with  a  humble  and  radiant  glance  which 
touched  her  heart. 

The  setting  sun  was  shedding  a  purple  hue  over  the 
swollen  waters  of  the  Arno.  For  a  moment  they  were 
silent.  Following  the  monotonous  line  of  palaces,  they 
walked  towards  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  She  was  the  first  to 
speak: 

"You  see  I  have  come.  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  come. 
I  am  not  innocent  of  what  has  happened.  I  know  it:  I 
have  done  everything  in  order  that  your  attitude  toward? 
me  should  be  what  it  is  now.  My  conduct  has  inspired 
you  with  thoughts  which  would  not  have  otherwise  occurred 
to  you." 

He  seemed  not  to  understand.    She  resumed: 

"I  was  selfish,  I  was  indiscreet.  I  liked  you;  your  in- 
telligence appealed  to  me;  I  could  not  do  without  you. 
I  did  everything  in  my  power  to  attract  and  retain  you. 
I  flirted  with  you.  But  not  in  coldness  of  heart  or  intending 
to  deceive.  Still  I  flirted." 

He  shook  his  head,  denying  that  he  had  ever  perceived  it. 

"Yes,  I  flirted.  But  it  is  not  my  custom.  However, 
I  flirted  with  you.  I  don't  say  that  you  attempted  to  take 
advantage  of  it,  as  you  had  a  perfect  right  to  do,  or  that 
you  were  puffed  up  by  it.  I  never  thought  you  vain.  Pos- 
sibly you  did  not  perceive  it.  High-minded  men  some- 
times lack  insight.  But  I  know  well  that  I  was  not  what 
I  should  have  been.  And  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  That 
is  why  I  came.  Let  us  remain  good  friends  while  we 
may." 

With  a  sorrowful  tenderness  he  told  her  that  he  loved 
her.  In  the  beginning  his  love  had  been  sweet  and  delight- 
ful. All  he  wanted  was  to  see  her  and  see  her  again.  But 
soon  she  had  agitated  him,  rent  his  heart,  made  him  beside 

126 


THE  RED  LILY  127 

himself.  His  passion  had  broken  forth  suddenly  and  vio- 
lently one  day  on  the  terrace  at  Fiesole.  And  now  he  lacked 
the  courage  to  suffer  in  silence.  He  cried  out  for  her  help. 
He  had  come  with  no  settled  plan.  If  he  had  told  her  of 
his  passion  it  was  because  he  could  not  help  it  and  in 
spite  of  himself,  because  of  his  overpowering  craving  to 
speak  of  her  and  to  her,  since  for  him  she  alone  existed. 
His  life  was  lived  in  her.  She  must  know  then  that  he 
loved  her,  not  with  any  mild,  indefinite  love,  but  with  an 
all-consuming,  cruel  passion.  Alas!  His  imagination  was 
precise.  He  knew  exactly  and  always  what  he  wanted,  and 
it  was  torture  to  him. 

And  then  it  seemed  to  him  that  together  they  would  have 
joys  which  made  life  worth  living.  Their  existence  would 
be  a  beautiful  but  secret  work  of  art.  They  would  think, 
they  would  comprehend,  they  would  feel  in  unison.  Theirs 
would  be  a  wonderful  world  of  emotions  and  ideas. 

"We  would  make  life  a  beautiful  garden." 

She  pretended  to  interpret  this  dream  in  all  innocence. 

"You  know  how  strongly  your  mind  appeals  to  me.  It 
has  become  necessary  to  me  to  see  you  and  hear  you.  I 
have  shown  you  this  only  too  plainly.  Be  assured  of  my 
friendship,  and  be  at  rest." 

She  offered  him  her  hand.  He  did  not  take  it,  and  re- 
plied abruptly: 

"I  will  not  have  your  friendship.  I  will  not  have  it. 
You  must  be  mine  entirely,  or  I  must  never  see  you  again. 
Why  with  mocking  words  do  you  offer  me  your  hand? 
Whether  you  intended  it  or  not  you  have  inspired  me  with 
a  passionate  desire,  a  fatal  longing.  You  have  become  my 
heart's  anguish  and  torture.  And  now  you  ask  me  to  be 
your  friend.  It  is  now  that  you  are  cruel  and  a  flirt.  If 
you  cannot  love  me,  let  me  leave  you;  I  will  go,  I  do  not 
know  where,  to  forget  you  and  hate  you.  For  in  the  depths 
of  my  heart  I  feel  towards  you  both  anger  and  hatred.  Oh! 
I  love  you,  I  love  you." 

She  believed  what  he  said.  She  feared  lest  he  should  go 
away;  and  she  dreaded  the  sad  dulness  of  life  without  him. 

"I  have  found  you  in  my  life.  I  will  not  lose  you.  No, 
I  will  not,"  she  said. 


128  THE  RED  LILY 

Timid,  passionate,  he  tried  to  murmur  something,  but 
the  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  Darkness  was  descending 
on  the  distant  mountains,  and  in  the  east,  over  the  hill  of 
San  Miniato,  were  fading  the  last  gleams  of  the  setting  sun. 

She  spoke  again. 

"If  you  had  known  my  life,  if  you  had  seen  how  empty  it 
was  before  you  came  into  it,  you  would  know  what  you  are 
to  me,  and  you  would  not  think  of  leaving  me." 

But  the  even  tones  of  her  voice  and  measured  step  upon 
the  pavement  irritated  him.  He  cried  out  that  he  was  in 
anguish;  his  desire  burnt  within  him;  this  one  thought  pos- 
sessed and  tortured  him;  always  and  everywhere,  by  night, 
by  day  he  saw  her,  he  called  her,  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
to  her.  The  divine  passion  had  entered  into  his  soul. 

"Like  incense  I  breathe  the  charm  of  your  intellect,  the 
inspiration  of  your  courage,  the  pride  of  your  soul.  When 
you  speak  I  seem  to  see  your  soul  on  your  lips,  and  I  die  be- 
cause I  cannot  press  mine  to  yours.  Your  soul  is  for  me  but 
the  expression  of  your  beauty.  Deep  down  within  me  there 
slumbered  the  instincts  of  primitive  man.  You  have  awak- 
ened them.  And  I  feel  that  I  love  you  with  the  simplicity 
of  a  savage." 

She  looked  at  him  tenderly  and  in  silence.  Just  then  they 
saw  lights  and  heard  mournful  songs  approaching  them  out 
of  the  darkness.  And  then,  like  phantoms,  driven  by  the 
wind,  there  appeared  before  them  black-robed  penitents. 
The  crucifix  was  carried  before  them.  They  were  the 
Brothers  of  the  Misericordia.  With  their  faces  hidden  by 
cowls  they  were  holding  lighted  torches  and  singing  psalms. 
They  were  bearing  a  corpse  to  the  cemetery.  It  was  the 
Italian  custom  for  the  funeral  procession  to  take  place  at 
night  and  to  pass  along  rapidly.  On  the  deserted  quay 
there  appeared  cross,  coffin,  and  banners.  Jacques  and 
Therese  stood  against  the  wall  to  let  pass  the  crowd  of 
priests,  choristers,  and  hooded  figures,  and,  in  their  midst, 
importunate  Death,  whom  no  one  welcomes  on  this  pleasure- 
loving  earth.  The  black  stream  had  passed.  Weeping 
women  ran  after  the  coffin  borne  by  weird  shapes  in  hob- 
nailed boots. 

Therese  sighed: 


THE  RED  LILY  129 

"Of  what  avail  is  it  to  torment  ourselves  in  this  world?" 

He  appeared  not  to  hear  her,  and  resumed  in  a  calmer 
voice: 

"Before  I  knew  you  I  was  not  unhappy.  I  loved  life. 
It  inspired  me  with  dreams  and  with  curiosity.  I  delighted 
in  form  and  in  the  spirit  of  form,  in  the  appearance  which 
charms  and  soothes.  To  see  and  to  dream  were  my  joys.  I 
enjoyed  everything,  and  I  was  independent  of  everything. 
I  was  borne  up  on  the  wings  of  my  insatiable  curiosity.  I 
was  interested  in  everything;  I  longed  for  nothing:  and  it  is 
only  desire  that  makes  us  suffer.  I  realise  that  to-day. 
Mine  was  not  a  melancholy  disposition.  I  was  happy  with- 
out knowing  it.  I  possessed  little,  but  all  that  was  neces- 
sary to  make  me  contented  with  life.  Now  that  has  de- 
parted from  me.  My  pleasures,  the  interest  I  took  in  life 
and  in  art,  the  joy  of  expressing  in  material  form  the  visions 
of  my  brain,  you  have  robbed  me  of  them  all,  and  without 
leaving  me  one  regret.  I  no  longer  desire  my  liberty.  I 
would  not  return  to  the  tranquillity  of  past  years.  It  seems 
as  if  I  never  lived  till  I  met  you.  And  now  that  I  know 
what  life  really  is,  I  can  live  neither  with  you  nor  away 
from  you.  I  am  more  wretched  than  the  beggars  we  saw 
on  the  road  to  Ema.  They  at  least  had  the  air  to  breathe. 
But  I  have  not  that,  for  you  are  the  breath  of  my  life,  and 
you  I  have  not.  Nevertheless  I  rejoice  that  I  have  known 
you.  It  is  all  that  counts  in  my  life.  Just  now  I  thought 
I  hated  you.  I  was  mistaken.  I  adore  you,  and  I  bless  you 
for  the  suffering  you  have  caused  me.  I  love  everything 
that  comes  from  you." 

They  were  approaching  the  dark  trees  at  the  entrance  to 
the  Porta  San  Niccola.  On  the  other  side  of  the  river  the 
land  looked  vague  and  infinite  in  the  darkness.  Seeing  him 
once  more  calm  and  gentle,  she  thought  that  his  passion,  ex- 
isting only  in  his  imagination,  had  been  appeased  by  expres- 
sion and  that  his  desire  was  merely  a  dream.  She  had  not 
expected  his  resignation  to  come  so  quickly.  She  was  almost 
disappointed  at  having  escaped  the  danger  she  had  so 
greatly  feared. 

She  now  offered  him  her  hand  more  boldly  than  at  first. 

"Come,  let  us  be  friends.     It  is  late.    We  must  return, 


130  THE  RED  LILY 

and  you  must  take  me  to  my  carriage,  which  I  have  left  on 
the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  I  shall  always  be  your  good 
friend  as  I  was  before.  You  have  not  vexed  me." 

But  he  led  her  towards  the  open  country,  along  the  river 
bank,  which  became  more  and  more  deserted. 

"No,  I  will  not  let  you  go  before  saying  what  was  in  my 
mind.  But  I  cannot  express  myself;  the  words  will  not 
come.  I  love  you ;  I  want  you.  I  long  to  know  that  you  are 
mine.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  not  pass  another  night  in 
the  horror  of  doubt." 

He  took  her  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  With  his  face 
close  to  hers  he  gazed  through  her  veil  and  looked  deep  into 
her  eyes. 

"You  must  love  me.  I  will  it,  you  also  have  willed  it. 
Say  that  you  are  mine.  Say  it!" 

Having  gently  freed  herself  from  his  embrace,  she  replied 
in  a  weak  hesitating  voice: 

"I  cannot.  I  cannot.  You  see  I  am  quite  frank  with  you. 
Just  now  I  told  you  that  you  had  not  vexed  me.  But  I  can- 
not do  as  you  wish." 

And  thinking  of  the  absent  lover  awaiting  her,  she  re- 
peated: 

"I  cannot." 

Bending  over  her,  anxiously  he  questioned  her  wavering 
downcast  glance. 

"Why?  You  love  me.  I  see  it.  Why  do  me  the  wrong 
of  refusing  to  be  mine?" 

He  drew  her  towards  him  and  tried  to  kiss  her  lips  be- 
neath her  veil.  This  time  she  withdrew  quickly  and  de- 
cisively. 

"I  can't.    Don't  ask  me.    I  can't  be  yours." 

His  lips  trembled.  His  whole  countenance  was  convulsed. 
He  cried: 

"You  have  a  lover  and  you  love  him.  Why  do  you  trifle 
*ith  me?" 

"I  swear  that  I  never  thought  of  trifling  with  you,  and 
that  if  ever  in  this  world  I  were  to  love  it  would  be  you." 

But  he  no  longer  listened  to  her. 

"Leave  me.    Leave  me,"  he  cried. 

And  he  fled  through  the  darkness.    The  Arno  had  over- 


THE  RED  LILY  131 

flowed  its  banks  on  to  the  pasture  lands.  There  the  water 
lay  in  shallow  sheets,  on  to  which  the  half  veiled  moon  cast 
its  quivering  beams.  Past  these  lagoons  and  over  the  muddy 
fields  he  hastened  sadly  and  distractedly. 

She  was  afraid  and  uttered  a  cry.  She  called  him.  But 
he  neither  replied  nor  turned  his  head.  With  alarming 
decision  he  continued  on  his  way.  She  ran  after  him.  With 
her  feet  bruised  by  the  stones,  her  skirt  heavy  with  water, 
she  rejoined  him  and  drew  him  towards  her. 

"What  were  you  going  to  do?" 

Then  as  he  looked  into  her  eyes,  he  read  there  the  fear 
that  had  possessed  her. 

"Don't  be  afraid.  I  did  not  see  where  I  was  going.  I 
assure  you  I  was  not  seeking  death.  Set  your  mind  at  rest. 
I  am  despairing,  but  I  am  calm.  I  fled  from  you.  Forgive 
me.  But  I  could  not  bear  to  look  at  you.  Leave  me,  I 
entreat  of  you.  Good-bye." 

Weak  and  intensely  agitated,  she  replied: 

"Come.    We  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

But  he  remained  sorrowful  and  silent. 

She  repeated: 

"Come." 

She  took  his  arm.  The  gentle  touch  of  her  hand  cheered 
him. 

"Will  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  determined  not  to  drive  you  to  despair." 

"Will  you  promise?" 

"I  must." 

Even  in  her  anguish  of  spirit  she  half  smiled  to  think  how 
quickly  his  wildness  had  given  him  his  desire. 

"To-morrow?"  he  asked. 

She  replied  eagerly  with  an  instinct  of  self-defence: 

"No,  not  to-morrow." 

"You  don't  love  me.    You  regret  your  promise,"  he  said. 

"No.    I  don't  regret  it,  but  ... " 

He  implored  her,  entreated  her.  She  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment,  turned  away  her  head,  hesitated,  and  then  said  in 
a  very  low  voice: 

"Saturday." 


XVII 

AFTER  dinner  Miss  Bell  was  drawing  profiles  of  bearded 
Etruscans  on  canvas  for  a  cushion  Madame  Marmet 
was  to  embroider.  Prince  Albertinelli  was  choosing  the  wool 
with  a  feminine  eye  for  colour.  The  evening  was  well  ad- 
vanced when  Choulette  appeared.  As  was  his  wont  he  had 
been  playing  briscola  *  at  an  eating-house  with  the  cook. 
He  was  gay  and  god-like  in  the  exuberance  of  his  wit.  He 
sat  down  on  the  sofa,  by  Madame  Martin,  and  looked  at  her 
tenderly.  His  green  eyes  sparkled  voluptuously.  His  com- 
pliments, poetical  and  picturesque,  had  the  air  of  a  caress. 
It  was  as  if  he  were  composing  a  love-song  in  her  honour. 
In  short,  abrupt,  curiously  turned  sentences  he  explained  the 
charm  by  which  she  attracted  him. 

"He  too,"  she  thought. 

And  she  amused  herself  by  teasing  him.  Had  he  not  dis- 
covered in  the  lower  quarters  of  Florence  one  of  those  per- 
sons whose  society  he  mostly  enjoyed,  she  inquired.  For 
his  preferences  in  such  matters  were  well  known.  It  was 
useless  for  him  to  deny  it;  every  one  knew  where  he  had 
found  the  cord  of  his  third  order.  His  friends  had  seen  him 
on  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel  with  women  of  the  street. 
And  he  had  avowed  his  interest  in  these  miserable  creatures 
in  his  finest  poems. 

"Oh!  Monsieur  Choulette,  by  all  I  hear  your  friends  are 
very  wicked." 

He  replied  solemnly: 

"Madame,  you  may  if  you  like  throw  in  my  face  calum- 
nies originating  with  M.  Paul  Vence.  I  will  not  defend  my- 
self. That  you  should  be  convinced  of  my  chastity  and 
pure-mindedness  matters  little.  But  do  not  lightly  judge 
those  whom  you  call  wretched,  whom  you  should  regard  as 
holy  because  they  are  miserable.  The  outcast  is  the  docile 
clay  in  the  potter's  hand,  the  sin  offering  at  the  sacrifici** 

*A  game  at  cards. — W.S. 


THE  RED  LILY  133 

altar.  Prostitutes  are  nearer  God  than  honest  women:  they 
have  lost  aJl  vainglory;  they  have  been  shorn  of  pride. 
They  are  unadorned  by  those  empty  nothings,  the  matron's 
boast.  They  possess  humility,  that  is  the  corner-stone  of 
the  heavenly  house  of  virtue  After  a  brief  repentance  they 
will  be  first  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven ;  for,  committed  with- 
out malice  and  without  joy,  their  sins  are  their  own  atone- 
ment. Their  vices,  in  that  they  are  sorrows,  have  the  merit 
of  all  suffering.  Slaves  to  the  brutality  of  passion,  these 
women  have  denied  themselves  pleasure.  Thus  they  re- 
semble men  who  have  become  celibate  that  they  may  enter 
the  Kingdom  of  God.  Like  us  they  are  sinners,  but  by  their 
shame  they  atone  for  their  sins;  suifering  purifies  like  fire. 
Therefore  the  first  prayer  they  address  to  Him  God  will 
hear.  He  has  prepared  for  them  a  throne  on  the  right  hand 
of  the  Father.  In  the  Kingdom  of  God,  the  queen  and  the 
empress  will  be  happy  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  women  of  the 
street.  For  do  not  imagine  that  the  heavenly  house  is  con- 
structed on  any  human  plan.  It  is  different  in  every  detail. 
Madame." 

Nevertheless  he  agreed  that  there  was  more  than  one  road 
leading  to  salvation.  There  was  the  road  of  love. 

"Men's  love,"  he  said,  "is  base.  It  is  but  a  steep  and 
stony  path,  but  it  leads  to  God." 

The  Prince  had  risen.  Kissing  Miss  Bell's  hand,  he 
said: 

"Till  Saturday." 

"Yes,  till  the  day  after  to-morrow,  till  Saturday,"  re- 
peated Vivian. 

Therese  shuddered.  Saturday!  They  spoke  so  calmly 
of  Saturday  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary  day  and  near  at  hand. 
Until  then  she  had  not  let  herself  believe  that  Saturday 
would  come  so  soon  or  so  naturally. 

It  was  half  an  hour  since  the  party  had  broken  up. 
Therese,  tired  and  weary,  was  lying  in  bed  thinking,  when 
she  heard  a  knock  at  her  bedroom  door.  It  opened,  and 
Vivian's  little  head  appeared  round  the  great  lemon-trees 
of  the  portiere. 

"Am  I  disturbing  you,  darling?    Are  you  sleepy?" 


134  THE  RED  LILY 

No,  "darling"  was  not  sleepy.  She  raised  herself  on  her 
elbow.  Vivian  sat  down  on  the  bed,  upon  which  her  slender 
form  made  no  impression. 

"Darling,  I  know  that  you  are  very  sensible.  Oh!  I  am 
sure  of  it.  You  are  as  sensible  as  Mr.  Sadler,  the  violinist, 
is  musical.  Sometimes  he  plays  a  little  out  of  tune  on  pur- 
pose. And  you  when  you  make  a  mistake  indulge  in  the 
pleasure  of  a  virtuoso.  Oh!  darling,  you  are  a  person  of 
sound  judgment.  And  I  come  to  ask  your  advice." 

Surprised  and  a  little  anxious,  Therese  declared  that  she 
was  not  sensible.  She  denied  it  absolutely.  But  Vivian  did 
not  listen  to  her. 

"I  have  read  Frangois  Rabelais  a  great  deal,  my  love. 
Rabelais  and  Villon  taught  me  French.  They  are  grand  old 
masters  of  language.  But,  darling,  do  you  know  Pantagruel? 
Oh!  Pantagruel  is  a  fine  and  beautiful  town,  full  of  palaces, 
splendid  in  the  dawn,  notwithstanding  that  the  sweepers 
have  yet  to  arrive  to  remove  the  filth  and  the  servants  to 
wash  the  marble  pavements.  No,  darling,  the  sweepers  have 
not  yet  removed  the  filth,  and  the  servants  have  not  yet 
washed  the  marble  pavements.  And  I  have  noticed  that 
French  ladies  don't  read  Pantagruel.  You  don't  know  it? 
Well,  that  does  not  matter.  In  Pantagruel,  Panurge  asks 
whether  he  should  marry,  and  he  appears  ridiculous,  my 
love.  Well,  I  am  as  absurd  as  he,  for  I  ask  you  the  same 
question." 

Therese  replied  with  ill-concealed  constraint: 

"As  for  that,  my  dear.  Don't  ask  me.  I  have  already 
told  you  my  opinion." 

"But,  darling,  you  merely  said  that  men  do  wrong  to 
marry.  I  can't  take  that  advice  for  myself." 

Madame  Martin  looked  at  Miss  Bell's  little  close  clipped 
head,  which  seemed  in  some  curious  manner  to  suggest  the 
bashfulness  of  love. 

Kissing  her,  she  said: 

"There  isn't  a  man  in  the  world  distinguished  enough  and 
charming  enough  for  you." 

Then  gravely  and  tenderly  she  continued: 

"You  are  not  a  child:  if  you  love  and  are  loved,  do  what 
you  think  right,  and  don't  complicate  love  by  material  in- 


THE  RED  LILY  135 

terests  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  feeling.    That  is  the 
advice  of  a  friend." 

For  a  moment  Miss  Bell  failed  to  understand.    Then  she 
blushed  and  rose.    She  was  shocked. 


XVIII 

AT  four  o'clock  on  Saturday  Therese  went  to  the  Eng- 
lish cemetery,  according  to  her  promise.  At  the  gate 
she  met  Dechartre,  grave  and  agitated.  He  said  little.  She 
was  glad  he  did  not  appear  elated.  He  led  her  past  the 
cemetery  walls  to  a  narrow  street  she  did  not  know.  "Via 
Alfieri,"  she  read  on  a  tablet.  After  walking  a  few  steps, 
he  stopped  in  front  of  a  dark  entry. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  infinite  sadness. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  in?" 

She  saw  that  he  was  resolute,  and  she  followed  him 
silently  into  the  damp  gloom  of  the  passage.  He  crossed  a 
grass-grown  courtyard.  At  the  end  was  a  little  house  with 
three  windows,  with  pillars  and  a  pediment  carved  with 
goats  and  nymphs.  On  the  moss-grown  doorstep,  slowly 
and  with  a  grating  sound,  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"It  is  rusty,"  he  murmured. 

"In  this  country  all  keys  are  rusty,"  she  replied  me- 
chanically. 

They  went  up  the  staircase,  so  tranquil  beneath  its  Greek 
moulding,  that  it  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  sound  of 
footsteps.  He  opened  a  door  and  showed  Therese  into  the 
room.  Without  staying  to  examine  it,  she  went  straight  to 
the  open  window,  looking  on  the  cemetery.  Over  the  wall 
rose  the  tops  of  pine-trees,  which,  in  that  country,  have  no 
funereal  aspect ;  for  their  mourning  casts  no  gloom  over  joy, 
and  the  sweetness  of  life  is  felt  even  in  the  grass  growing 
over  the  tomb.  He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  an 
arm-chair.  She  remained  standing,  gazing  round  the  room, 
which  he  had  arranged  so  that  she  might  feel  at  home.  A 
few  strips  of  old  printed  calico  represented  on  the  walls  the, 
melancholy  delights  of  past  gaiety.  In  one  corner  he  had 
hung  up  a  faded  pastel  they  had  looked  at  together  in  an 
antiquary's  shop,  and  which  she  had  called  the  shade  of 
Rosalba  on  account  of  its  vanishing  grace.  One  or  two 

13* 


THE  RED  LILY  137 

white  chairs  and  a  grandmother's  arm-chair;  on  the  table 
a  few  painted  cups  and  some  Venetian  glass.  In  the  corners 
were  screens  of  coloured  paper,  painted  with  masks,  gro- 
tesque figures,  and  sheep-cotes,  representing  the  gay  life  of 
Florence,  Bologna,  and  Venice,  in  the  days  of  the  grand- 
dukes  and  the  last  doges.  She  noticed  that  he  had  carefully 
hidden  the  bed  behind  one  of  these  gaily  painted  screens. 
A  mirror,  a  carpet,  and  hangings,  that  was  all.  He  had  not 
dared  to  procure  more  in  a  town  where  ingenious  dealers 
were  always  on  his  track. 

He  shut  the  window  and  lit  the  fire.  She  sat  down  in 
the  arm-chair;  and,  while  she  sat  there  stiffly,  he  knelt 
before  her,  took  her  hands,  kissed  them,  and  gazed  at  her 
long  with  an  admiration  proud  yet  fearful.  Then  he  bent 
down  and  kissed  the  tip  of  her  shoe. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"I  am  kissing  the  feet  that  brought  you  here." 

He  rose,  drew  her  gently  to  him,  and  kissed  her  long  on 
the  lips. 

She  remained  passive,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes 
closed ;  her  toque  slipped  off,  her  hair  fell  down. 

She  yielded  without  resistance. 

Two  hours  later,  when  the  setting  sun  was  casting  its  long 
rays  over  the  pavement,  Therese,  who  had  wished  to  go 
back  through  the  town  alone,  found  herself  in  front  of  the 
two  obelisks  of  Santa-Maria-Novella,  without  knowing  how 
she  had  come  there.  At  the  corner  of  the  square  she  saw 
the  old  cobbler  drawing  his  thread  in  the  same  monotonous 
manner.  He  was  smiling,  with  his  sparrow  on  his  shoulder. 

She  went  into  his  booth  and  sat  down  on  a  stool,  and 
there  she  said  in  French: 

"Quentin  Matsys,  my  friend,  what  have  I  done,  and  what 
will  become  of  me?" 

He  looked  at  her  calmly,  with  cheerful  good  nature,  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  understand.  He  was  past  being  astonished. 
She  shook  her  head. 

"What  I  did,  my  good  Quentin,  was  because  he  was  suf- 
fering, and  I  loved  him.  I  do  not  regret  it." 

To  which  he  answered,  as  was  his  custom,  the  sonorous 
Italian  "yes": 


138  THE  RED  LILY 

"Si,  si." 

"I  did  no  wrong,  did  I,  Quentin?  But  what  will  happen 
now?" 

She  was  going,  but  he  signed  to  her  to  wait  a  moment. 
He  carefully  picked  a  spray  of  basil  and  gave  it  to  her. 
"Take  it  for  its  sweet  smell,  Signora." 


XIX 

ON  the  morrow  Madame  Martin  was  reading  at  the  win« 
dow.  Choulette  greeted  her,  having  first  tenderly 
placed  on  the  table  his  knotted  stick,  his  pipe,  and  his  car- 
pet-bag. He  was  going  to  Assisi.  He  wore  a  goatskin 
jacket,  and  looked  like  the  old  shepherds  in  the  story  of  the 
Nativity. 

"Good-bye,  Madame.  I  am  leaving  Fiesole,  you,  De- 
chartre,  the  effeminate  Prince  Albertinelli,  and  that  charm- 
ing ogress,  Miss  Bell.  I  go  to  visit  the  mountain  of  Assisi, 
which,  says  the  poet,  should  be  called  not  Assisi,  but  'the 
Orient,'  for  thence  rose  the  sun  of  love.  I  shall  kneel  before 
that  happy  crypt  where  reposes  the  naked  body  of  St. 
Francis  in  a  trough  of  stone,  with  a  stone  for  a  pillow.  For 
he  would  not  bear  away  even  so  much  as  a  shroud  from  this 
world,  to  which  he  had  revealed  the  secret  of  true  happiness 
and  true  holiness." 

"Good-bye,  Monsieur  Choulette.  Bring  me  a  Santa 
Chiara  medal.  I  like  Santa  Chiara." 

"You  are  right,  Madame.  She  was  a  woman  of  strength 
and  prudence.  When,  ill  and  almost  blind,  St.  Francis 
came  to  spend  a  few  days  with  his  friend  at  San  Damiano, 
with  her  own  hands  she  built  him  a  cell  in  the  garden.  His 
soul  rejoiced.  A  painful  weariness  and  burning  of  his  eye- 
lids deprived  him  of  sleep.  Rats  attacked  him  by  night.  It 
was  then  that  he  composed  that  joyful  hymn  in  honour  of 
his  splendid  brother,  the  Sun,  and  our  chaste,  useful,  and 
pure  sister,  Water.  My  finest  lines,  even  those  of  Le  Jardin 
Clos,  have  less  irresistible  charm  and  natural  splendour. 
And  it  is  right  that  it  should  be  so;  for  the  soul  of  St. 
Francis  was  more  beautiful  than  mine.  Although  I  am 
better  than  any  of  my  contemporaries,  whom  I  have  been 
privileged  to  know,  I  am  worthless.  When  Francis  had 
composed  his  hymn  to  the  Sun,  he  was  happy.  He  thought: 
My  brethren  and  I  will  go  through  the  towns,  playing  our 
lutes  in  the  market-places  on  market-days.  When  the  good 


Kfo  THE  RED  LILY 

people  draw  near  us  we  will  say:  'We  are  God's  minstrels; 
we  will  sing  you  a  lay.  If  it  pleases  you,  you  must  reward 
us.'  /ney  will  promise.  And  when  we  have  sung,  we  shall 
say  to  *hem:  'Now  for  our  reward;  what  we  ask  is  that 
you  shall  love  one  another.'  Doubtless,  in  order  to  keep 
their  pr&ririse,  and  so  please  God's  poor  minstrels,  they  will 
forbear  fr«vn  doing  each  other  harm." 

Madame  Martin  thought  St.  Francis  the  most  lovable  of 
saints. 

"His  work,"  Choulette  resumed,  "was  destroyed  during 
his  lifetime.  Nevertheless  he  died  happy,  because  joy  and 
humility  were  his.  He  was  indeed  God's  sweet  singer. 
And  it  is  fitting  that  another  poor  poet  should  take  up  his 
work,  and  teach  the  world  true  religion  and  true  joy.  That 
poet  shall  be  I,  Madame,  if  only  I  can  cast  away  pride  and 
wisdom.  For  all  moral  beauty  is  the  result  of  that  incom- 
prehensible wisdom  which  comes  from  God  and  resembles 
madness." 

"I  will  not  discourage  you,  Monsieur  Choulette.  But  I 
am  anxious  about  the  lot  of  poor  women  in  your  new  so- 
ciety. You  will  shut  them  all  up  in  convents." 

"I  confess,"  replied  Choulette,  "that  in  my  project  for  a 
reformation  they  cause  me  much  embarrassment.  The  vio- 
lence with  which  they  are  loved  is  bitter  and  bad.  The 
pleasure  they  give  brings  no  calm,  and  does  not  lead  to  joy. 
I,  in  my  life,  have  for  the  sake  of  women  committed  two  or 
three  abominable  crimes,  of  which  no  one  knows.  I  doubt, 
Madame,  whether  I  shall  invite  you  to  supper  in  the  new 
Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli." 

He  took  up  his  pipe,  his  carpet-bag,  and  his  stick  with 
its  human  head. 

"The  faults  of  love  will  be  pardoned — or,  rather,  one 
can  do  no  wrong  when  one  really  loves.  But  sensual  pas- 
sion is  compact  of  hatred,  egoism,  and  wrath  as  much  as  of 
love.  One  evening,  for  having  thought  you  beautiful  as 
you  sat  on  this  sofa,  I  was  assailed  by  a  whole  army  of 
passionate  thoughts.  I  had  come  from  the  Albergo,  where 
I  had  heard  Miss  Bell's  cook  improvise  two  hundred  mag- 
nificent lines  on  spring.  My  soul  was  flooded  with  a  celes- 
tial joy  which  vanished  at  the  sight  of  you.  Eve's  curse 


THE  RED  LILY  IA* 

contains  a  profound  truth.  For  in  your  presence  I  grew 
sad  and  wicked.  Soft  words  were  on  my  lips.  But  they 
lied.  Within  I  felt  myself  your  adversary;  I  hated  you. 
When  I  saw  you  smile,  I  wanted  to  kill  you." 

"Really?" 

"Oh,  Madame,  it  is  a  very  natural  feeling,  and  one  that 
you  must  have  often  inspired.  But  the  ordinary  man  feels 
it  without  knowing  what  it  is,  whilst  my  vivid  imagination 
defines  it  clearly.  I  am  in  the  habit  of  contemplating  my 
own  soul;  sometimes  I  find  it  splendid,  sometimes  hideous. 
If  you  had  seen  it  that  evening,  you  would  have  been 
horrified." 

Therese  smiled. 

"Good-bye,  Monsieur  Choulette;  don't  forget  the  Santa 
Chiara  medal." 

He  put  his  bag  on  the  ground,  and,  stretching  out  his  arm, 
with  his  forefinger  raised  in  the  manner  of  one  who  teaches, 
he  said: 

"From  me  you  have  nothing  to  fear.  But  him  whom 
you  shall  love  and  who  shall  love  you  will  be  your  enemy. 
Farewell,  Madame." 

He  took  up  his  bag  and  went  out.  She  saw  his  tall  quaint 
form  disappear  behind  the  shrubs  in  the  garden. 

In  the  afternoon  she  went  to  San  Marco,  where  Dechartre 
was  waiting  for  her.  She  longed  and  yet  she  feared  to  see 
him  again  so  soon.  Her  anguish  of  heart  was  appeased  by 
a  new  feeling  of  intense  sweetness.  The  moral  numbness  of 
her  first  yielding  to  passion,  followed  by  a  sudden  vision  of 
the  irreparable,  did  not  recur.  She  was  now  under  serener, 
vaguer,  more  powerful  influences.  This  time  the  memory 
of  caresses  and  the  violence  of  passion  was  veiled  in  a 
charming  revery.  She  was  troubled  and  anxious,  but  not 
ashamed  or  regretful.  It  was  not  so  much  by  her  own  will 
as  in  obedience  to  a  higher  power  that  she  had  acted.  She 
justified  her  action  by  its  unselfishness.  She  counted  on 
nothing,  having  expected  nothing.  Certainly  she  had  been 
wrong  to  yield  when  she  was  not  free,  but  then  she  on  her 
part  had  exacted  nothing.  Perhaps  she  was  for  him  only  a 
passing  fancy  all  absorbing,  yet  serious  only  for  the  mo- 
ment. She  did  not  know  him.  She  had  not  put  to  the  test 


142  THE  RED  LILY 

those  fine  imaginings,  which  are  so  far  above  mediocrity  in 
evil  as  well  as  in  good.  If  he  were  suddenly  to  depart  and 
disappear,  she  would  not  reproach  him,  she  would  not  bear 
him  ill-will,  at  least  she  believed  so.  She  would  treasure  the 
memory  of  what  is  rarest  and  most  precious  in  the  world. 
Perhaps  he  was  incapable  of  an  enduring  love.  He  had 
thought  he  loved  her.  He  had  loved  her  for  an  hour.  She 
did  not  dare  to  hope  for  more  in  the  embarrassment  of  a 
false  position  in  which  her  frankness  and  her  pride  were 
outraged  and  the  usual  clearness  of  her  thought  obscured. 
While  the  carriage  was  bearing  her  to  San  Marco,  she  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  herself  that  he  would  not  mention 
what  had  happened  on  the  previous  day,  and  that  the  mem- 
ory of  that  room,  looking  on  the  dark  pine-trees,  would  be 
to  them  both  but  the  dream  of  a  dream. 

He  gave  her  his  hand  as  she  got  out  of  the  carriage. 
Before  he  spoke  she  saw  by  his  glance  that  he  loved  her 
and  that  he  wanted  her  still ;  and  she  perceived  at  the  same 
time  that  she  was  pleased  it  should  be  so. 

"It  is  you,"  he  said,  "really  you — I  have  been  here  since 
noon,  waiting,  knowing  that  you  would  not  come  yet,  but 
feeling  that  I  could  not  live  away  from  the  place  where  I 
was  to  see  you.  It  is  you!  .  .  .  Speak  that  I  may  see 
you  and  hear  you." 

"Do  you  still  love  me?" 

"It  is  now  that  I  really  love  you.  I  thought  I  loved  you 
when  you  were  but  a  phantom  pursued  by  my  desire.  Now 
you  are  the  body  of  my  soul.  Is  it  true,  say,  can  it  be  true 
that  you  are  mine?  What  have  I  done  that  I  should  possess 
the  greatest,  the  only  good  upon  earth?  And  those  other 
men  who  fill  the  earth!  They  think  they  live!  But  I  alone 
live!  Say  what  have  I  done  to  possess  this  treasure?" 

"Oh!  what  has  been  done  has  been  done  by  me.  I  tell 
you  frankly.  If  we  come  to  that,  it  is  my  fault.  She  may 
not  always  avow  it,  but  it  is  always  the  woman's  fault.  So, 
whatever  may  happen,  I  shall  never  reproach  you." 

An  active  noisy  troop  of  beggars,  guides,  and  profligates 
came  out  of  the  church  porch  and  surrounded  them  with  an 
importunity  mingled  with  that  grace  always  characteristic 
of  the  nimble  Italian.  They  were  subtle  enough  to  guess 


THE  RED  LILY  143 

they  had  to  deal  with  lovers,  and  they  knew  that  lovers  are 
generous.  Dechartre  threw  them  a  few  silver  pieces,  and 
they  all  returned  to  their  happy  idleness. 

A  policeman  met  the  visitors.  Madame  Martin  regretted 
that  it  was  not  a  monk.  At  Santa-Maria-Novella,  the  white 
robes  of  the  Dominicans  looked  so  beautiful  under  the 
arches  of  the  cloister. 

They  visited  the  cells  where  Fra  Angelico,  aided  by  his 
brother  Benedetto,  painted  innocent  pictures  on  the  white 
walls  for  his  comrades,  the  monks. 

"Do  you  remember  that  winter  evening  when  I  met  you 
on  the  little  bridge  over  a  ditch  in  front  of  the  Guimet 
Museum  and  accompanied  you  to  that  little  street  bordered 
by  gardens  and  leading  to  the  Quai  de  Billy?  Before  part- 
ing, we  paused  for  a  moment  by  the  thin  box  hedge  running 
along  the  parapet.  You  looked  at  the  box  which  the  winter 
had  dried  and  withered.  And  after  you  had  gone,  I  stayed 
and  gazed  at  it." 

They  were  in  the  cell  of.  Savonarola,  the  prior  of  the 
monastery  of  San  Marco.  The  guide  showed  them  the  por- 
trait and  the  relics  of  the  martyr. 

"What  could  you  see  to  admire  in  me  that  day?  It  was 
nearly  dark." 

"I  could  see  you  walk.  It  is  by  motion  that  forms  speak. 
Each  of  your  steps  revealed  to  me  the  secret  of  your  regular 
beauty  and  your  charm.  Oh!  when  you  are  concerned  my 
imagination  has  never  kept  within  the  bounds  of  discretion. 
I  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  you.  The  sight  of  you  filled  me 
with  fear.  I  was  terrified  before  her  who  could  do  every- 
thing for  me.  In  your  presence  I  adored  you  with  trembling. 
Away  from  you  I  felt  all  the  irreverence  of  desire." 

"I  never  guessed  it.  But  do  you  remember  the  first  time 
we  met,  when  Paul  Vence  introduced  you?  You  were  sit- 
ting by  the  screen,  looking  at  the  miniatures  hanging  on  it. 
You  said:  'That  woman,  painted  by  Siccardi,  is  like  Andre 
Chenier's  mother.'  I  replied:  'That's  my  husband's  grand- 
mother. What  was  Andre  Chenier's  mother  like?'  And 
you  said:  'We  have  her  portrait,  that  of  a  degenerate 
Levantine  woman.'  " 

He  was  sure  he  had  not  spoken  so  rudely. 


144  THE  RED  LILY 

"But  yes.    My  memory  is  better  than  yours." 

They  walked,  surrounded  by  the  white  silence  of  the 
monastery.  They  visited  the  cell  that  Blessed  Angelico 
adorned  with  the  softest  painting.  And  there  before  the 
picture  of  the  Virgin  on  a  pale  blue  sky  receiving  the  im- 
mortal crown  from  God  the  Father,  he  took  Therese  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  almost  in  sight  of  two  Eng- 
lishwomen, passing  down  the  corridor,  reading  Baedeker. 

"We  must  not  forget  to  visit  St.  Anthony's  cell,"  she  said. 

"Therese,  I  cannot  bear  that  any  part  of  you  should 
escape  from  me.  It  is  terrible  to  think  that  you  do  not  live 
in  me  and  for  me  alone.  I  long  to  possess  entirely  you  and 
your  past." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Oh!  as  for  the  past!" 

"The  past  alone  is  real.    The  past  alone  exists." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  like  the  sun  shining 
through  the  rain: 

"Well  I  can  say  very  truly:  I  never  really  live  except 
when  I  am  with  you." 

On  her  return  to  Fiesole,  she  found  a  short  threatening 
letter  from  Le  Menil.  He  could  not  understand  her  silence 
and  her  prolonged  absence.  If  she  did  not  immediately 
name  the  date  of  her  return  he  would  come  to  Florence. 

She  read  his  letter,  not  in  any  way  surprised,  yet  over- 
whelmed by  the  realisation  that  the  inevitable  was  happen- 
ing and  that  she  would  be  spared  nothing  of  all  she  had 
feared.  She  might  yet  pacify  and  reassure  him.  She  had 
only  to  write  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  was  soon  coming 
back,  and  that  he  must  renounce  the  wild  idea  of  meeting 
her  at  Florence,  which  was  only  a  village,  where  they  would 
be  recognised  immediately.  But  she  must  write:  "I  love 
you."  She  must  soothe  him  with  loving  words.  She  had 
not  the  courage.  She  allowed  him  to  guess  the  truth.  In 
vague  terms  she  accused  herself.  She  wrote  mysteriously 
of  souls  carried  away  on  the  waves  of  life  and  how  powerless 
one  is  on  the  ocean  of  vicissitude.  Sadly  and  tenderly  she 
asked  him  to  keep  a  kindly  memory  of  her  in  one  corner  of 
his  heart. 

She  herself  went  to  post  the  letter  on  the  Piazza,  of 


THE  RED  LILY  145 

Fiesole.  In  the  twilight  some  children  were  playing  at  hop- 
scotch. From  the  top  of  the  hill  she  looked  down  on  the 
beautiful  basin  and  Florence  like  a  lovely  jewel  nestling  in 
the  hollow.  The  peacefulness  of  evening  made  her  shudder. 
She  dropped  the  letter  into  the  box.  And  then  only  did  she 
clearly  realise  what  she  had  done  and  what  would  be  its 
result. 


XX 

THE  bright  spring  sun  was  casting  its  golden  beams  on 
the  Piazza,  della  Signoria,  when  at  the  striking  of  the 
hour  of  twelve  the  country  crowd  of  corn-dealers  and 
macaroni  merchants  began  to  break  up.  At  the  foot  of  the 
Lanzi,  in  front  of  the  group  of  statues,  the  ice-cream  sellers 
had  erected  little  castles  with  the  inscription  Bibite  ghiac- 
ciate,  on  tables  covered  with  red  cotton.  Joy  and  gaiety 
seemed  to  have  come  down  to  earth  from  heaven.  Therese 
and  Jacques,  on  their  way  home  from  a  morning  walk  in  the 
Boboli  Gardens,  were  passing  the  famous  loggia.  Therese 
was  looking  at  John  of  Bologna's  Sabine  woman,  with  that 
curious  interest  with  which  one  woman  looks  at  another. 
But  Dechartre  had  eyes  for  Therese  alone. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  he  said,  "how  the  bright  daylight  en- 
hances your  beauty;  it  seems  to  linger  lovingly  on  the  pearl 
white  of  your  cheeks." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Candle-light  always  hardens  my  fea- 
tures. I  have  noticed  it.  It  is  unfortunate  that  I  am  not 
an  evening  beauty;  for  in  the  evening  women  have  most 
opportunity  of  displaying  their  good  looks.  In  the  evening 
Princess  Seniavine  has  a  lovely  olive  complexion;  by  day- 
light she  is  as  yellow  as  a  guinea.  I  must  admit  that  it  does 
not  trouble  her.  She  is  not  a  coquette." 

"And  you  are." 

"Oh!  yes.  I  used  to  be  for  my  own  sake,  now  I  am  for 
yours." 

She  looked  again  at  the  robust,  long-limbed  Sabine 
woman,  who  was  endeavouring  to  escape  from  the  Roman's 
embrace. 

"Is  that  angularity  and  length  of  limb  a  necessary  quality 
in  a  beautiful  woman?  I  am  not  like  that." 

Dechartre  hastily  reassured  her.  But  she  had  not  really 
doubted.  Now  she  was  looking  at  the  ice  cream  man's  little 
chateau,  with  its  copper  walls  gleaming  on  the  scarlet  table- 
cloth. She  suddenly  felt  a  desire  to  eat  an  ice  there,  stand* 

146 


THE  RED  LILY  147 

ing  at  this  table,  as  she  had  just  seen  the  working  women 
of  the  town  do. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said. 

He  ran  to  a  street  on  the  left  of  the  Lanzi  and  disap- 
peared. 

In  a  minute  he  returned  with  a  little  silver  gilt  spoon, 
from  which  the  gilding  was  partly  worn  away,  and  the 
handle  of  which  was  formed  by  a  Florentine  lily  with  its 
calyx  enamelled  in  red. 

"This  is  for  you  to  eat  your  ice  with.  The  ice-cream  man 
does  not  provide  spoons.  You  would  have  been  obliged  to 
use  your  tongue.  It  would  have  been  charming.  But  you 
would  not  have  known  how  to  do  it." 

She  recognised  the  spoon;  it  was  a  little  gem  she  had 
noticed  the  day  before  in  a  shop  window  near  the  Lanzi. 

They  were  happy.  The  fulness  of  their  simple  joy  over- 
flowed in  trivial,  meaningless  words.  And  they  laughed 
when  the  Florentine  with  excellent  mimicry  told  them  the 
time-honoured  tales  of  old  Italian  story-tellers.  She  was 
entertained  by  the  play  of  his  classic,  jovial  countenance. 
But  she  did  not  always  understand  him. 

"What  is  he  saying?"  she  asked  Jacques. 

"Do  you  want  to  know?" 

She  did. 

"Well!  he  says  he  would  be  happy  if  the  fleas  in  his  bed 
were  as  pretty  as  you." 

When  she  had  finished  her  ice,  he  urged  her  to  revisit  Or 
San-Michele.  It  was  so  close.  They  would  cross  to  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  square  and  there  they  would  see  the 
jewel  in  stone.  They  went.  They  looked  at  the  bronze  St. 
George  and  St.  Mark.  On  the  encrusted  wall  of  the  house, 
Dechartre  saw  the  letter-box,  and  remembered  with  painful 
vividness  the  little  gloved  hand  posting  the  letter.  The 
copper  mouth  that  had  swallowed  Therese'^  secret  appeared 
to  him  hideous.  He  could  not  look  away  from  it.  All  his 
gaiety  had  vanished.  Meanwhile  she  was  trying  to  appreci- 
ate the  rough  statue  of  the  Evangelist. 

"Yes,  indeed  he  looks  frank  and  honest.  If  he  could 
speak  his  words  would  always  be  true." 

"His  is  no  woman's  mouth,"  Dechartre  retorted  bitterly. 


148  THE  RED  LILY 

She  understood,  and  said  very  sweetly: 
"My  friend,  why  do  you  say  that?    I  am  frank." 
"What  do  you  call  being  frank?    You  know  that  a  woman 
is  bound  to  lie." 

She  hesitated.    Then: 

"A  woman,"  she  said,  "is  frank  when  she  does  not  lie  use- 
lessly." 


XXI 

'TpHfiRESE,  in  grey,  was  gliding  among  the  flowering 
J.  broom  bushes.  The  silver  stars  of  the  arbutus  covered 
the  steep  slope  of  the  terrace,  and  on  the  hill-side  gleamed 
the  sweet  scented  flame-like  flowers  of  the  oleander.  The 
Florentine  valley  was  one  mass  of  flowers. 

Vivian  Bell,  dressed  in  white,  came  into  the  perfumed 
garden. 

"You  see,  darling,  Florence  is  really  the  city  of  flowers; 
and  it  is  right  she  should  have  the  red  lily  for  her  emblem. 
To-day  is  a  festival." 

"Ah!  is  it  a  feast-day?" 

"Darling,  don't  you  know  that  it  is  the  first  of  May,  the 
Primavera?  Did  you  not  awake  this  morning  in  fairyland? 
Aren't  you  keeping  the  Festival  of  Flowers,  darling?  Don't 
you  feel  gay,  you  who  love  flowers?  For  you  do  love  them, 
I  know.  You  feel  tenderly  towards  them.  You  said  that 
they  feel  joy  and  sorrow,  that  they  suffer  as  we  do." 

"Did  I  say  that  they  suffer  like  us?" 

"Yes,  you  said  so.  To-day  is  their  festival.  You  must 
celebrate  it  according  to  the  custom  of  our  ancestors,  in 
rites  depicted  by  the  old  masters." 

Therese  heard  without  comprehending.  Crushed  in  her 
gloved  hand  was  a  letter  she  had  just  received,  bearing  the 
Italian  post-mark  and  containing  only  two  lines: 

"I  arrived  to-night  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Grande  Bretagne, 
Lungarno  Acciajoli.  I  expect  you  to-morrow  morning. 
No.  18." 

"Oh!  darling,  don't  you  know  that  at  Florence  it  is  our 
custom  to  welcome  the  springtime  on  the  first  of  May? 
Then  you  can't  have  understood  Botticelli's  picture  of  the 
Feast  of  Flowers,  his  delightful  Spring,  so  full  of  happy 
revery.  Formerly,  darling,  on  this  first  day  of  May,  the 
whole  town  was  merry.  The  girls  of  Florence,  in  festive 
garb,  crowned  with  hawthorn,  passed  in  procession  up  the 
Corso,  beneath  arches  of  flowers,  to  dance  under  the  olean- 

149 


ISO  THE  RED  LILY 

ders  on  the  fresh  green  grass.    We  will  imitate  them.    We 
will  dance  in  the  garden." 

"Are  we  going  to  dance  in  the  garden?" 

"Yes,  darling,  and  I  will  teach  you  some  fifteenth-century 
Tuscan  dances,  discovered  in  a  MS.  by  Mr.  Morison,  the 
doyen  of  London  librarians.  Come  back  quickly,  my  love; 
we  will  wreathe  our  heads  with  flowers  and  then  we  will 
dance." 

"Yes,  dear,  we  will  dance." 

And,  opening  the  gate,  she  hurried  down  the  little  path 
with  channels  worn  by  the  rain  like  the  bed  of  a  mountain 
torrent,  and  stones  hidden  beneath  briar  roses.  She  jumped 
into  the  first  carriage  she  met.  The  driver  had  cornflowers 
in  his  hat  and  on  his  whip-handle. 

"Hotel  de  la  Grande-Bretagne,  Lungarno  Acciajoli,"  she 
said. 

She  knew  where  it  was,  Lungarno  Acciajoli.  .  .  .  She 
had  been  there,  in  the  evening,  and  she  remembered  the 
golden  light  of  the  setting  sun  on  the  surging  waters  of  the 
river.  Then  night  had  come;  and  she  heard  the  water's 
dull  murmur  in  the  silence;  words  and  glances  had  agitated 
her,  and  her  lover's  first  kiss,  the  beginning  of  an  irreparable 
love.  Oh!  Yes,  she  remembered  Lungarno  Acciajoli  and 
the  river  bank  beyond  the  Ponte  Vecchio  .  .  .  Hotel  de  la 
Grande  Bretagne  .  .  .  She  knew:  a  broad  stone  fagade 
on  the  quay.  It  was  fortunate,  if  he  must  come,  that  he 
was  staying  there.  He  might  have  gone  to  the  Hotel  de  la 
Ville,  on  the  Piazzi  Manin,  where  Dechartre  was  staying. 
It  was  fortunate  that  their  rooms  were  not  side  by  side  in 
the  same  corridor  .  .  .  Lungarno  Acciajoli!  .  .  .  That 
corpse  they  had  seen  hurrying  by,  borne  by  cowled  monks, 
it  was  at  rest  in  some  little  garden  cemetery. 

Number  18. 

It  was  a  bare  Italian  hotel  room  with  a  stove.  A  set  of 
brushes  was  carefully  set  out  on  the  table,  and  by  them  a 
railway  guide.  Not  a  book,  not  a  newspaper.  He  was 
there:  she  read  suffering  and  feverish  excitement  on  his  thin 
face;  and  its  sad  expression  pained  her.  He  awaited 
a  word,  a  sign;  but  she  remained  silent,  motionless,  and 
afraid. 


THE  RED  LILY  151 

He  offered  her  a  chair.  She  put  it  on  one  side  and  con- 
tinued standing. 

"Therese,  there  is  something  that  I  do  not  know.  Speak." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  she  replied  with  painful  hesi- 
tation: 

"Why  did  you  leave  me  in  Paris?" 

The  sadness  of  her  tone  made  him  believe,  and  he  wished 
to  believe,  that  she  was  reproaching  him.  He  blushed  and 
replied  eagerly: 

"Ah!  If  I  had  foreseen!  You  must  know  that  at  heart 
I  cared  little  for  that  hunting-party!  But  you,  your  letter 
of  the  zyth  (he  had  a  good  memory  for  dates)  made  me 
terribly  anxious.  Something  had  happened  when  you  wrote 
it.  Tell  me  everything." 

"I  thought,  dear,  that  you  had  ceased  to  love  me." 

"But  now  you  know  that  to  be  untrue." 

"Now  ..." 

She  was  still  standing  with  her  hands  clasped. 

Then  with  assumed  tranquillity,  she  said: 

"Our  union  was  formed  in  ignorance.  One  never  knows. 
You  are  young,  younger  than  I,  since  we  are  nearly  of  an 
age.  Doubtless  you  have  plans  for  the  future." 

He  looked  her  haughtily  in  the  face.  She  continued  with 
less  assurance: 

"Your  relatives,  your  mother,  your  aunts  have  made  plans 
for  you.  It  is  quite  natural.  I  ought  to  have  guessed  that 
there  was  some  obstacle.  It  is  better  that  I  should  disap- 
pear from  your  life.  We  shall  keep  a  kindly  memory  of 
each  other." 

She  offered  him  her  gloved  hand.    He  folded  his  arms. 

"And  so  you  are  tired  of  me,"  he  said.  "You  think  that 
when  you  have  made  me  happier  than  any  other  man  has 
ever  been,  you  can  put  me  on  one  side,  that  everything  is 
over!  .  .  .  And  what  have  you  come  to  tell  me?  That 
a  union  such  as  ours  is  quickly  sundered.  That  a  parting 
is  easy?  ...  I  tell  you,  no!  You  are  not  the  kind  of 
woman  from  whom  one  parts." 

"Yes,  you  probably  loved  me  with  an  affection  stronger 
than  is  usual  in  such  cases.  I  was  more  to  you  than  a  pass- 
ing fancy.  But,  what  if  I  were  not  the  woman  you  thought 


152  THE  RED  LILY 

nie,  what  if  I  were  a  flirt,  and  betrayed  you.  .  .  .  You 
know  what  has  been  said.  .  .  .  Well!  what  if  I  have  not 
been  all  that  I  ought  to  have  been  ..." 

She  hesitated  and  resumed  in  a  grave  serious  tone  which 
contrasted  with  her  words: 

"Supposing  that  while  I  was  your  mistress  I  yielded  to 
other  attractions  and  was  possessed  by  other  longings.  Per- 
haps I  am  not  made  for  a  serious  passion.  ..." 

He  interrupted  her. 

"You  lie,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  lie.  And  I  do  not  lie  well.  I  wanted  to  spoil 
our  past.  I  was  wrong.  It  is  what  you  know  it  was. 
But  .  .  ." 

"But  .    .    .?" 

"Well!  I  always  told  you  I  am  not  to  be  depended  on. 
There  are  women,  so  I  am  told,  who  are  mistresses  of  their 
feelings.  I  warned  you  that  I  was  not  like  them,  that  I  am 
not  answerable  for  mine." 

He  looked  left  and  right  and  turned  his  head  like  a 
creature  irritated  and  yet  hesitating  to  attack. 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  don't  understand.  I  understand 
nothing.  Explain  yourself.  There  is  something  between 
us.  I  don't  know  what.  But  I  am  determined  to  know. 
What  is  it?" 

"It  is  because  I  am  not  sure  of  myself,  dear.  You  ought 
never  to  have  placed  your  confidence  in  me.  No,  you 
ought  never  to  have  done  it.  I  never  promised  anything. 
.  .  .  And,  then,  if  I  had  promised,  what  are  words?" 

"You  love  me  no  longer.  You  have  ceased  to  love  me,  I 
see  it  well.  But,  so  much  the  worse  for  you!  I  love  you. 
You  ought  never  to  have  given  yourself  to  me.  It  is  no  use 
your  thinking  you  can  take  back  that  gift.  I  love  you  and 
L  keep  you.  ...  Ah!  You  thought  you  were  easily  rid 
of  me?  Listen.  You  made  me  love  you;  you  charmed  me; 
it  is  your  fault  that  I  cannot  live  without  you.  You  enjoyed 
your  share  in  our  raptures.  I  did  not  take  you  by  force. 
You  were  willing.  Six  weeks  ago  you  asked  for  nothing 
better.  You  were  everything  to  me.  I  was  everything  to 
you.  So  complete  was  our  union  that  our  very  lives  were 
mingled.  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  you  ask  me  to  forget 


THE  RED  LILY  153 

you,  to  regard  you  as  a  stranger,  a  casual  acquaintance. 
Ah!  you  have  an  unparalleled  assurance.  Tell  me,  was  I 
dreaming  when  I  felt  your  kisses  and  your  breath  upon  my 
neck?  Was  it  not  true?  Am  I  imagining  it  all?  Oh!  I 
cannot  doubt  that  you  loved  me  once.  I  feel  the  breath  of 
your  love  upon  me  still.  And  yet,  I  have  not  changed.  I 
am  what  I  was.  You  have  nothing  with  which  to  reproach 
me.  I  have  never  deceived  you.  Not  that  it  is  any  credit 
to  me.  I  could  not  have  done  it.  When  one  has  known 
you,  all  other  women,  even  the  most  beautiful,  appear  in^ 
sipid.  The  idea  of  deceiving  you  never  occurred  to  me.  I 
always  treated  you  honourably.  Then  why  have  you  ceased 
to  love  me?  But  tell  me,  speak.  Say  that  you  still  love  me, 
Say  so,  since  it  must  be  true.  Come,  come!  Therese,  you 
will  feel  at  once  that  you  love  me,  as  you  used  to  love  me 
in  our  little  nest  in  the  Rue  Spontini,  where  we  were  so 
happy.  Come!" 

Passionately,  eagerly  he  threw  his  strong  arms  around 
her.  She,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  repulsed  him  icily. 

He  understood  and  said: 

"You  have  a  lover." 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  then  raised  it,  grave  and  silent 

Then  he  struck  her  on  the  breast,  on  the  shoulder,  and  m 
the  face.  But  immediately  he  drew  back  ashamed,  and 
looked  down  in  silence.  With  his  fingers  on  his  lips,  biting 
his  nails,  he  noticed  that  his  hand  had  been  scratched  by  a 
pin  in  her  bodice.  He  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  took 
out  his  handkerchief  to  dry  the  blood,  and  remained  as  if 
benumbed  and  stupefied. 

She,  leaning  against  the  door,  pale,  her  head  erect,  her 
glance  uncertain,  was  instinctively  unpinning  her  torn  veil 
and  readjusting  her  hat. 

At  the  sound,  once  so  delicious,  of  the  rustling  of  her 
clothes,  he  shuddered,  looked  at  her,  and  relapsed  into  fury. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked.    "I  must  know." 

She  did  not  move.  On  her  white  face  was  a  red  mark 
where  his  hand  had  struck  her.  She  replied  firmly  and 
gently: 

"I  have  told  you  all  I  could.  Ask  me  no  more.  It  would 
be  useless." 


154  THE  RED  LILY 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  cruel  glance  she  had  never  seea 
before. 

"Oh!  you  need  not  tell  me  his  name.  I  shall  have  no 
difficulty  in  finding  him." 

She  was  silent,  sad  for  him,  anxious  for  another,  full  of 
fear  and  anguish,  yet  without  bitterness,  sorrow,  or  regret, 
for  her  heart  was  elsewhere. 

He  seemed  to  know  what  was  passing  within  her.  In  his 
wrath  at  beholding  her  so  sweet  and  serene,  beautiful,  but 
not  as  he  had  known  her,  beautiful  for  another,  he  felt  a 
desire  to  kill  her,  and  he  cried: 

"Go— go." 

Then  overpowered  by  the  passion  of  that  hatred,  which 
was  not  natural  to  him,  he  put  his  head  in  his  hands  and 
sobbed. 

His  grief  touched  her  and  gave  her  hope  that  she  might 
be  able  to  calm  him  and  render  her  departure  less  agonising. 
She  imagined  that  she  might  console  him  for  losing  her.  In 
a  friendly  and  confiding  manner  she  sat  down  beside  him. 

"You  must  blame  me,"  she  said.  "I  deserve  blame  but 
also  pity.  Despise  me,  if  you  like,  and  if  you  can  despise  a 
miserable  creature  who  is  life's  plaything.  Judge  me,  as 
you  will.  But  in  your  wrath  feel  a  little  friendliness  to- 
wards me;  let  me  be  a  bitter-sweet  memory  like  those 
autumn  days  when  there  is  sunshine  and  east  wind.  That  is 
what  I  deserve.  Don't  be  hard  on  the  pleasant  but  frivolous 
visitor  who  has  crossed  your  path.  Bid  me  farewell  as  if  I 
were  a  sad  traveller  who  goes  away  she  knows  not  whither. 
It  is  always  so  sad  to  part!  You  were  angry  with  me  just 
now.  I  don't  reproach  you.  But  it  grieves  me.  Show  me 
some  sympathy.  Who  knows?  The  future  is  always  un- 
known. It  lies  vague  and  dark  before  me.  Let  me  be  able 
to  say  that  I  have  been  kind,  simple,  and  frank  with  you, 
and  that  you  have  not  forgotten  me.  In  time  you  will  come 
to  understand  and  to  forgive.  But  to-day,  just  be  pitiful." 

He  was  not  listening  to  the  words  she  said,  but  the  soft 
clear  sound  of  her  voice  soothed  him.  He  said  suddenly: 

"You  do  not  love  him.  It  is  I  whom  you  love.  Then " 

She  hesitated,  then  said: 

"Oh:  to  say  whom  one  loves  and  whom  one  does  not  love 


THE  RED  LILY  155 

is  no  easy  matter  for  a  woman,  at  least  for  me.  I  don't 
know  how  others  do;  for  life  is  not  merciful.  One  is  bat- 
tered and  thrown  and  driven — " 

He  looked  at  her  very  calmly.  An  idea  had  occurred  to 
him.  He  had  made  a  resolve.  It  was  quite  simple.  He 
would  forgive,  he  would  forget,  if  only  she  would  return  at 
once. 

"Therese,  you  don't  love  him?  It  was  a  mistake,  a  mo- 
ment's forgetfulness,  a  horrible  stupid  thing  that  you  did, 
surprised  in  an  instant  of  weakness,  or  perhaps  out  of  pique. 
Swear  to  me  that  you  will  never  see  him  again." 

He  took  hold  of  her  arm,  saying,  " Swear." 

She  was  silent,  her  lips  tightly  closed,  looking  darkly. 

"You  are  hurting  me,"  she  cried. 

But  he  did  not  desist.  He  dragged  her  to  the  table, 
where,  as  well  as  the  brushes,  were  an  ink-pot  and  a  few 
sheets  of  letter-paper  each  bearing  a  picture  of  the  hotel 
fagade  with  its  numerous  windows. 

"Write  what  I  dictate.    I  will  send  the  letter." 

And,  when  she  resisted,  he  forced  her  on  to  her  knees. 
Proudly  and  calmly,  she  said: 

"I  cannot.    I  will  not." 

"Why?" 

"Because  ...  Do  you  want  to  know?  .  .  .  Because 
I  love  him." 

Suddenly  he  let  her  go.  If  he  had  had  a  revolver  at 
hand,  perhaps  he  would  have  killed  her.  But  almost  im- 
mediately his  wrath  melted  into  sadness;  and,  then  despair- 
ing, it  was  his  own  life  he  would  have  taken. 

"Are  you  speaking  the  truth?    Is  it  possible?    Is  it  true?" 

"Do  I  myself  know?  Can  I  tell?  Can  I  understand 
yet?  Can  I  think?  Can  I  feel?  Can  I  see  any  ray  of 
light?  Can  I  .  . 

Then  with  a  slight  effort,  she  added: 

"At  this  moment  can  I  realise  anything  but  my  sadness 
and  your  despair?" 

"You  love  him!  You  love  him!"  he  cried.  "How  has  he 
made  you  love  him?" 

He  was  stupefied  by  surprise,  overwhelmed  with  astonish- 
ment. Nevertheless,  what  she  had  said  had  separated  them. 


156  THE  RED  LILY 

He  no  longer  dared  to  handle  her  roughly,  to  seize  her,  to 
strike  her,  and  treat  her  as  his  chattel.  He  repeated: 

"You  love  him !  You  love  him !  But  what  did  he  say  to 
you,  what  has  he  done  to  make  you  love  him?  I  know  you: 
I  did  not  always  tell  you  when  your  ideas  shocked  me.  I 
wager  that  this  lover  of  yours  is  not  even  a  man  in  society. 
And  you  think  he  loves  you?  You  think  so?  Well  you  are 
mistaken:  he  does  not  love  you.  He  will  give  you  up  at  the 
first  opportunity.  He  will  have  had  enough  of  you  when  he 
has  compromised  you.  Then  you  will  pass  from  one  affair 
to  another.  Next  year  the  worst  things  will  be  said  of  you, 
I  am  sorry  for  your  father,  who  is  my  friend.  He  will  know 
of  your  conduct;  for  you  will  not  be  able  to  deceive 
him." 

She  listened,  humiliated  and  yet  consoled,  for  she  knew 
she  would  have  suffered  more  deeply  had  she  found  him 
nagnanimous. 

He  despised  her  in  his  simplicity;  and  his  scorn  consoled 
him.  He  tested  it  to  the  full. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  he  asked.  "You  need  not  hesitate 
to  tell  me." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  such  obvious  pity  for 
him  that  he  did  not  dare  continue  in  this  strain.  He  re- 
sumed bitterly: 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  help  you  to  save  the  situation,  that 
I  shall  continue  to  visit  your  husband  and  be  a  third  in 
your  household?" 

"I  expect  you  to  do  what  a  gallant  man  ought  to  do.  I 
ask  you  for  nothing.  I  should  have  liked  to  remember  you 
as  a  dear  friend.  I  had  expected  you  to  be  kind  and  chari- 
>able.  It  is  impossible.  I  see  such  partings  must  always 
be  bitter.  Later  you  will  think  better  of  me.  Good-bye." 

He  looked  at  her.  Now  his  face  was  more  expressive  of 
sorrow  than  of  wrath.  She  had  never  seen  his  eyes  look 
so  hard  or  deeply  ringed,  or  his  temples  appearing  so  plainly 
beneath  his  thin  hair.  He  seemed  to  have  aged  in  an  hour. 

"I  must  warn  you,"  he  said.  "It  will  be  impossible  for 
me  to  meet  you  again.  You  are  not  the  kind  of  woman 
whom,  after  what  has  passed  between  us,  one  can  continue 
to  meet  in  society.  As  I  have  said,  you  are  a  woman  apart. 


THE  RED  LILY  15? 

You  have  a  poison  of  your  own,  which  you  have  given  me; 
I  feel  it  within  me,  in  my  veins,  everywhere.  Why  did  I 
ever  know  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  kindly. 

"Good-bye!  Say  to  yourself  that  I  am  not  worth  such 
bitter  regrets." 

Then,  when  he  saw  her  with  her  hand  on  the  door  handle, 
when  he  felt  that  he  was  about  to  lose  her,  that  he  would 
never  possess  her  again,  he  uttered  a  cry  and  rushed  forward. 
He  remembered  nothing.  All  that  he  felt  was  the  numbness 
which  follows  a  great  misfortune,  an  irreparable  loss.  But 
this  feeling  of  having  been  stunned  gave  place  to  desire. 
He  wanted  once  more  the  mistress,  who  was  going,  never 
to  return.  He  drew  her  to  him.  With  all  the  strength  of 
his  physical  nature  he  wanted  her.  She  was  on  the  watch 
and  resisted  him  with  all  the  power  of  her  will.  Dishevelled 
and  disarranged,  she  freed  herself  without  having  even  felt 
afraid. 

He  understood  that  it  would  be  useless ;  the  lost  sequence 
of  facts  returned  to  him,  and  he  realised  that  she  could  not 
be  his  because  she  was  another's.  His  anguish  revived;  he 
hurled  insults  at  her  and  pushed  her  out  of  the  room. 

For  a  moment  she  lingered  in  the  passage,  proudly  wait- 
ing for  a  word,  a  look  worthy  of  their  past  love. 

But  again  he  cried:    "Go,"  and  banged  the  door. 

Via  Alfieri!  She  returned  to  the  little  house  at  the  back 
of  the  courtyard,  overgrown  with  pale  green  grass.  It 
seemed  peaceful,  silent,  faithful,  with  its  goats  and  nymphs, 
carved  for  the  lovers  of  the  days  of  the  Grand-Duchess 
Eliza.  Already  she  felt  a  sense  of  escape  from  a  sorrowful 
and  brutal  world,  as  if  she  had  been  carried  through  the 
ages  to  a  life  where  suffering  was  unknown.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  staircase,  the  steps  of  which  were  strewn  with  roses, 
Dechartre  was  waiting  for  her.  She  fell  into  his  arms  and 
remained  there  passive,  while  he  carried  her  upstairs  like 
the  precious  relic  of  her  before  whom  he  had  once  grown 
pale  and  trembled.  With  eyes  half  closed  she  tasted  the 
superb  humiliation  of  feeling  herself  his.  Her  weariness, 
her  sadness,  the  mortifications  of  the  day,  the  memory  of 
violence,  her  re-conquered  liberty,  the  desire  to  forget,  some 


158  THE  RED  LILY 

vestige  of  fear,  all  intensified  her  tenderness.  Lying  on  the 
bed,  she  clasped  her  arms  round  her  lover's  neck. 

They  were  as  gay  as  children.  They  laughed,  talked  non- 
sense, and  played  as  they  sucked  lemons,  oranges,  and 
water-melons  piled  near  them  on  painted  plates. 

She  was  flushed  with  pride  in  the  comeliness  of  the  body 
she  was  offering  upon  the  altar  of  love.  For  she  had  dis- 
carded her  clothes  save  for  one  thin  rose-hued  garment,  and 
this  had  slipped  scarfwise  from  her  shoulder,  laying  bare  one 
breast,  whilst  the  warmer  tinted  tip  of  the  other  glowed 
through  the  rosy  gossamer  that  veiled  it. 

Her  half  open  lips  displayed  the  whiteness  of  her  teeth. 
With  coquettish  anxiety,  she  asked  whether,  after  all  his 
glowing  dreams  of  her,  he  had  not  been  disappointed. 

In  the  half-light  which  he  had  contrived  he  contemplated 
her  with  youthful  ardour,  mingling  kisses  with  his  praises. 

In  pretty  caresses,  loving  disputes,  and  happy  glances 
they  passed  the  time,  till  all  of  a  sudden  grave,  with  looks 
overcast  and  compressed  lips,  a  prey  to  that  sacred  wrath 
which  brings  love  near  hatred  they  plunged  into  the  abyss 
of  passion. 

Then  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  her  hair  flowing,  she 
would  open  her  eyes  bathed  in  tears,  and  smile  sweetly. 

He  asked  her  how  she  had  come  by  that  little  red  mark 
on  the  temple.  She  replied  that  she  did  not  know  and  that 
it  was  nothing. 

It  was  hardly  a  lie.    For  really  she  had  forgotten. 

They  recalled  their  beautiful  short  story — which  yet  cov- 
ered all  their  life,  for  life  began  the  day  they  first  met. 

"You  remember  being  on  the  terrace  the  day  after  your 
arrival.  You  talked  vaguely  and  incoherently.  I  guessed 
then  that  you  loved  me." 

"I  was  afraid  you  thought  me  stupid." 

"You  were  rather.  But  that  was  my  triumph.  I  was 
beginning  to  grow  impatient  with  your  serenity  in  my  pres- 
ence. I  loved  you  before  you  loved  me.  Oh!  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  it." 

He  poured  into  her  mouth  a  few  drops  of  sparkling  Asti. 
But  on  the  table  was  a  bottle  of  Trasimene  wine.  She 
wanted  to  taste  it  in  memory  of  that  lake  lying  in  the  eve- 


THE  RED  LILY  159 

ning  light  so  melancholy  and  beautiful  in  its  opal  cup.  She 
had  seen  it  during  her  first  visit  to  Italy,  six  years  ago. 

He  reproached  her  with  having  appreciated  beauty  with- 
out his  aid. 

"But,  without  you,  I  should  never  have  seen  anything," 
she  said.  "Why  did  you  not  come  sooner?" 

He  silenced  her  with  a  kiss. 

And  she  exhausted  with  joy  cried: 

"Yes,  I  love  you!  Yes,  I  have  never  loved  any  one  but 
you." 


XXII 

LE  MfiNIL  had  written:  "I  leave  to-morrow  evening  at 
seven.  Be  at  the  station." 

She  had  come.  As  she  approached  the  hotel  omnibuses, 
there  she  saw  him  in  his  long  grey  Inverness,  calm  and 
correct.  He  merely  said: 

"Ah!    You  here!" 

"But  you  asked  me  to  come." 

He  would  not  confess  that  his  letter  had  been  written  in 
the  wild  hope  that  perhaps  after  all  she  might  love  him 
again,  that  everything  might  be  forgotten  and  that  he  might 
hear  her  say:  "It  was  only  to  try  you." 

If  she  had  spoken  thus  he  would  have  believed  her  at 
once. 

But  her  silence  disappointed  him;  and  he  said  bitterly: 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  me?  It  is  for  you  to  speak, 
not  for  me.  I  have  nothing  to  explain.  I  have  no  falseness 
to  excuse." 

"My  friend,  don't  be  cruel;  bear  me  no  ill-will  for 
what  is  past.  That  is  what  I  came  to  say.  But  I  want  to 
tell  you  too,  that  I  bid  you  farewell  with  the  sadness  of  a 
true  friend." 

"Is  that  all?  Go  and  say  it  to  the  other;  it  will  interest 
him  more  than  me." 

"You  asked  me  to  come,  and  I  came.  Don't  make  me 
regret  it." 

"I  am  sorry  I  have  troubled  you.  Doubtless  you  could 
have  employed  your  time  better.  Don't  let  me  detain  you. 
Go  to  him,  as  you  are  longing  to." 

Struck  by  the  thought  that  these  poor  miserable  words 
represented  but  a  moment  of  humanity's  eternal  suffering, 
aad  haunted  by  the  memory  of  many  similar  words  in  tragic 
drama,  Therese's  lips  curled  with  ironical  sadness.  He 
thought  she  was  smiling. 

"Don't  laugh.  Listen.  At  the  hotel,  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, I  wanted  to  kill  you.  I  came  so  near  doing  it  that 

160 


THE  RED  LILY  161 

now  I  know  what  it  means.  And  I  shall  not  do  it.  You 
need  not  fear.  Besides,  what  would  be  the  good?  As  I 
wish  to  keep  up  appearances  for  my  own  sake,  I  shall  call 
on  you  in  Paris.  I  shall  learn  with  regret  that  you  cannot 
see  me.  I  shall  see  your  husband.  I  shall  also  see  your 
father.  It  will  be  to  take  my  leave  before  a  long  absence. 
Good-bye,  Madame." 

Just  as  he  was  turning  away  from  her,  Therese  saw  Miss 
Bell  and  Prince  Albertinelli  coming  out  of  the  goods  station 
and  walking  towards  her.  The  Prince  looked  very  hand- 
some. Vivian  was  walking  by  him  in  all  the  gladness  of 
maidenly  joy. 

"Oh!  darling!  What  a  delightful  surprise  to  find  you 
here.  The  Prince  and  I  have  been  to  the  custom-house  to 
claim  my  bell,  which  has  just  arrived." 

"Ah!  has  your  bell  come?" 

"It  is  here,  darling,  Ghiberti's  bell!  I  have  seen  it  in  its 
wooden  packing-case.  It  would  not  ring  because  it  was  a 
prisoner.  But,  in  my  house  at  Fiesole,  I  will  lodge  it  in  a 
campanile.  When  it  breathes  Florentine  air,  it  will  delight 
to  make  its  silver  voice  heard.  Visited  by  doves,  it  will  ring 
out  all  our  joys  and  all  our  sorrows.  It  will  ring  for  you, 
for  me,  for  the  Prince,  for  good  Madame  Marmet,  for  M. 
Choulette,  for  all  our  friends." 

"Bells  never  ring  out  true  joys  and  sorrows,  dear.  They 
are  mere  dutiful  officials  who  know  none  but  official  feel- 
ings." 

"Darling,  you  are  mistaken.  Bells  know  the  heart's 
secrets;  they  know  everything.  But  I  am  so  glad  to  meet 
you.  Oh!  1  know  why  you  are  at  the  station.  Your  maid 
betrayed  you.  She  told  me  you  were  expecting  a  pink 
gown,  which  had  not  come,  and  that  you  were  burning  with 
impatience.  But  don't  worry.  You  are  always  perfectly 
beautiful,  my  love." 

She  made  Madame  Martin  get  into  the  trap. 

"Come  quickly,  darling.  M.  Jacques  Dechartre  is  dining 
with  us  to-night;  and  I  don't  want  to  keep  him  waiting." 

And,  after  they  had  driven  in  silence  along  the  lanes, 
smelling  sweetly  of  wild  flowers,  Vivian  said: 

"Do  you  see  down  there,  darling,  the  black  distaffs  of  the 


162  THE  RED  LILY 

Fates,  the  cypress  trees  in  the  cemetery?  It  is  my  wish  one 
day  to  lie  beneath  them." 

But  Therese  was  thinking  anxiously: 

"They  saw  him.  Did  she  recognise  him?  I  don't  think 
so.  It  was  growing  dark;  and  the  lights  were  dazzling. 
Perhaps  she  does  not  know  him.  I  can't  remember  whether 
she  met  him  at  my  house  last  year." 

What  troubled  her  most  was  the  Prince's  ill-concealed 
rejoicing. 

"Darling,  will  you  lie  by  my  side,  in  that  rural  cemetery, 
beneath  a  little  earth  and  the  vast  spaces  of  the  sky?  But 
it  is  foolish  of  me  to  give  you  an  invitation  which  you  can't 
accept.  You  will  not  be  permitted  to  sleep  your  last  sleep 
at  the  foot  of  the  Fiesole  hills,  my  love.  You  will  have  to 
rest  at  Paris,  beneath  a  handsome  monument,  by  the  side  of 
Count  Martin-Belleme." 

"Why?  Do  you  think,  dear,  that  a  wife  should  remain 
united  to  her  husband  even  after  death?" 

"Certainly,  she  should,  darling.  Marriage  is  for  time  and 
for  eternity.  Don't  you  know  the  story  of  the  husband  and 
wife  of  Auvergne,  who  loved  one  another.  They  died  al- 
most together,  and  were  buried  in  two  graves,  separated  by 
a  road.  But  every  night  a  wild  rose  threw  a  spray  of 
flowers  between  the  ITTO  graves;  in  the  end  the  coffins  had 
to  be  put  together." 

When  they  had  passed  the  Badia,  they  saw  a  procession 
winding  up  the  hill  slopes.  The  evening  breeze  was  blowing 
out  the  flickering  flames  of  the  candles  in  their  gilded 
wooden  candlesticks.  The  painted  banners  were  surrounded 
by  girls  in  the  white  and  blue  of  their  religious  society. 
Then  came  a  little  St.  John,  fair  with  curly  hair,  naked 
except  for  the  lamb's  fleece,  showing  his  bare  arms  and 
shoulders;  and  then  a  St.  Mary  Magdalen  of  seven,  robed 
in  the  gold  of  her  crimped  hair.  The  inhabitants  of  Fiesole 
were  following  in  a  crowd.  Countess  Martin  recognised 
Choulette  in  their  midst.  He  was  singing,  a  candle  in  one 
hand,  his  book  in  the  other,  blue  spectacles  on  the  end  of 
his  nose.  The  candle  cast  a  yellow  light  over  his  flat  fea- 
tures, the  bumps  on  his  skull,  and  his  dishevelled  hair.  His 
unkempt  beard  rose  and  fell  to  the  measure  of  the  hymn. 


THE  RED  LILY  163 

In  the  lurid  lights  and  shadows  he  looked  old  and  robust, 
and,  like  the  hermits,  capable  of  living  through  a  century  of 
penance. 

"How  grand  he  is!"  said  Therese.  "He  poses  to  himself. 
He  is  a  great  artist." 

"Oh!  darling,  why  won't  you  allow  that  M.  Choulette 
is  really  pious?  Why?  It  is  so  sweet  and  so  beautiful  to 
believe.  Poets  realise  that.  If  M.  Choulette  had  no  faith, 
he  would  not  be  able  to  write  such  fine  verses." 

"And  you,  dear,  have  you  faith?" 

"Oh!    Yes,  I  believe  in  God  and  in  the  words  of  Christ." 

At  length  the  canopy,  the  banners,  and  the  white  veils  had 
all  disappeared  round  a  corner  of  the  hill.  But  Choulette's 
bare  head,  illuminated  by  the  candle-light,  was  still  to  be 
seen. 

Meanwhile,  Dechartre  was  waiting  alone  in  the  garden. 
Therese  found  him,  leaning  against  the  balustrade  of  that 
terrace,  where  he  had  felt  the  first  agony  of  love.  While 
Miss  Bell  and  the  Prince  were  choosing  a  place  for  the  new 
bell's  campanile,  he  took  Therese  for  a  moment  in  among 
the  broom  bushes. 

"You  promised  to  be  in  the  garden  on  my  arrival.  I 
have  been  waiting  for  an  hour,  which  seemed  like  eternity. 
You  ought  not  to  have  gone  out.  Your  absence  surprised 
and  distressed  me." 

She  replied  vaguely  that  she  had  been  obliged  to  go  to 
the  station,  and  that  Miss  Bell  had  driven  her  back  in  the 
trap. 

He  asked  her  to  forgive  his  anxiety.  But  everything 
alarmed  him.  Even  his  happiness  made  him  tremble. 

They  were  already  at  dinner  when  Choulette  appeared, 
looking  like  some  ancient  satyr,  a  strange  light  gleaming  in 
his  phosphorescent  eyes.  Since  his  return  from  Assisi,  he 
had  lived  with  the  people.  He  spent  his  days  drinking 
Chianti  wine  with  doubtful  women  and  working  men,  ad- 
monishing them  to  be  glad  and  innocent,  announcing  the 
coming  of  Jesus  Christ  and  the  quickly  approaching  aboli- 
tion of  taxes  and  military  service.  After  the  procession,  he 
had  assembled  the  crowd  in  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  theatre, 
and  in  Macaronic  language,  a  jumble  of  French  and  Tuscan, 


164  THE  RED  LILY 

preached  a  sermon,  which  he  was  now  pleased  to 
repeat: 

"Kings,  Senators,  and  Judges  have  said:  'We  are  the  life 
of  the  people.'  Now  '.l~y  lie.  They  are  the  coffin  who  says: 
'I  am  the  cradle.' 

"The  life  of  the  people  is  in  the  fields  growing  white  unto 
the  harvest  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord.  It  is  in  the  vines 
hanging  from  the  branches  of  the  young  elms,  and  in  the 
smiles  and  the  tears  which  the  heavens  rain  down  upon  the 
fruits  of  the  trees  in  the  meadows  and  orchards. 

"The  life  of  the  people  is  not  in  the  laws,  made  by  the 
powerful  and  rich  for  the  preservation  of  power  and  wealth. 

"The  heads  of  kingdoms,  and  republics  have  written  in 
their  books  that  international  law  is  the  law  of  war.  And 
they  have  glorified  violence.  They  honour  conquerors;  in 
the  public  squares  they  erect  statues  to  the  victor  and  to 
his  steed.  But  no  one  has  the  right  to  kill:  wherefore  the 
just  man  will  refuse  to  draw  his  number  for  conscription. 
No  man  has  the  right  to  encourage  the  madness  and  the 
crimes  of  a  prince  who  has  been  placed  over  a  kingdom  or  a 
republic:  wherefore  the  just  man  will  not  pay  taxes;  and  he 
will  not  give  his  money  to  the  publicans.  In  peace  he  will 
enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  labour;  and  he  will  make  bread  of  the 
corn  he  has  sown,  and  he  will  eat  of  the  fruits  of  the  trees 
he  has  trimmed." 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Choulette,"  said  Prince  Albertinelli 
gravely,  "you  are  right  to  take  an  interest  in  the  condition 
of  our  poor  country,  ruined  by  taxation.  What  profit  can 
one  derive  from  land  taxed  at  the  rate  of  33  per  cent,  on 
its  net  annual  value?  Master  and  servants  are  alike  the 
prey  of  the  publicans." 

Dechartre  and  Madame  Martin  were  both  struck  by  the 
unexpected  sincerity  of  his  manner. 

"I  love  the  King,"  he  added.  "There  is  no  question  of 
my  loyalty.  But  I  grieve  for  the  sufferings  of  the  peasants." 

The  truth  is  that  he  was  pertinaciously  pursuing  one  sin- 
gle object:  that  of  restoring  his  country  estate  of  Casentino. 
His  father,  one  of  Victor-Emmanuel's  artillery  officers,  had 
left  three-quarters  of  it  in  the  hands  of  money-lenders.  His 
son  concealed  his  purpose  beneath  affected  indolence.  But 


THE  RED  LILY  165 

he  allowed  himself  no  vices  except  such  as  were  useful  and 
would  tend  to  accomplish  the  object  of  his  life.  It  was  with 
the  design  of  becoming  a  great  Tuscan  landed  proprietor 
that  he  had  dealt  in  pictures,  secretly  sold  the  famous  ceil-, 
ings  of  his  palace,  paid  his  addresses  to  old  women,  and 
finally  asked  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Bell,  whom  he  knew  to 
be  an  adept  at  money-making  and  housekeeping.  He  really 
loved  the  land  and  its  peasants.  And  Choulette's  fervent 
words,  which  he  only  half  understood,  appealed  to  that 
love.  He  permitted  himself  to  say  what  he  really  thought: 

"In  a  country  where  the  master  and  servants  are  one 
family,  the  fate  of  the  one  depends  on  that  of  the  other. 
Taxation  ruins  us.  What  fine  fellows  our  farmers  are!  In 
the  cultivation  of  the  land  they  are  unequalled." 

Madame  Martin  confessed  that  she  would  not  have 
thought  it.  It  was  only  in  Lombardy  that  she  had  seen 
fields  well  cultivated  and  well  watered.  Tuscany  looked  to 
her  like  a  beautiful  neglected  orchard. 

The  Prince  replied  smiling  that  perhaps  she  might  alter 
her  opinion  if  she  were  to  do  him  the  honour  of  visiting  his 
farms  at  Casentino,  in  spite  of  their  having  suffered  from 
long  and  ruinous  law-suits.  There  she  would  see  the  true 
Italian  peasant. 

"I  pay  great  attention  to  my  estate.  I  was  coming  from  it 
this  evening  when  I  had  the  double  pleasure  of  meeting  at 
the  station,  Miss  Bell,  who  was  claiming  her  treasure,  and 
you,  Madame,  who  were  talking  to  a  friend  from  Paris." 

He  had  thought  that  he  might  annoy  her  by  speaking  of 
this  meeting.  Looking  round  the  table  he  noticed  the  ex- 
pression of  grieved  surprise  which  Dechartre  had  been  un- 
able to  conceal.  He  insisted: 

"Pardon  a  country  person  who  flatters  himself  on  pos- 
sessing a  certain  social  discrimination,  Madame;  but  I  saw 
that  the  gentleman  talking  to  you  must  be  a  Parisian,  be- 
cause of  his  English  air,  and  his  affectation  of  English 
stiffness  which  only  served  to  display  the  ease  and  vivacity 
of  the  Frenchman." 

"Oh!"  said  Therese  carelessly,  "I  had  not  seen  him  for 
a  long  while.  And  I  was  very  surprised  to  meet  him  at 
Florence  just  as  he  was  going  away." 


166  THE  RED  LILY 

She  looked  at  Dechartre  who  pretended  not  to  be  lis- 
tening. 

"But  I  know  the  gentleman,"  said  Miss  Bell.  "It  was  M. 
Le  Menil.  I  sat  next  him  at  dinner  twice,  at  Madame  Mar- 
tin's, and  he  talked  very  well.  He  told  me  that  he  liked 
football,  that  he  had  introduced  it  into  France,  and  that 
now  it  is  very  fashionable.  He  also  told  me  about  his  hunt- 
ing. He  is  very  fond  of  animals.  I  notice  that  sportsmen 
are  always  fond  of  animals.  I  assure  you,  darling,  that  M. 
Le  Menil  can  talk  delightfully  of  hares.  He  knows  their 
habits.  He  told  me  it  was  charming  to  see  them  dancing  by 
moonlight  in  the  heather.  He  assured  me  that  they  are  very 
intelligent,  and  that  he  had  seen  an  old  hare,  pursued  by 
dogs,  forcing  another  hare  out  of  its  hiding-place,  in  order 
to  put  them  off  the  track.  Darling,  has  M.  Le  Menil  ever 
talked  to  you  about  hares?" 

Therese  replied  that  she  did  not  remember.  She  thought 
sportsmen  were  always  bores. 

Miss  Bell  replied  that  she  did  not  believe  M.  Le  Menil 
could  bore  any  one  when  he  described  hares  dancing  by 
moonlight  in  the  vines  and  the  heather.  Like  Phanion,  she 
would  like  to  train  a  little  hare. 

"Don't  you  know  Phanion,  darling?  I  am  sure  M. 
Dechartre  knows  her.  She  was  beautiful  and  beloved  of 
poets.  She  lived  in  the  Island  of  Cos,  in  a  house  on  the  side 
of  a  hill,  covered  with  lemon  and  terebinth  trees,  and  on  the 
shore  of  a  blue  sea.  It  is  said  that  she  used  to  gaze  at  the 
blue  waves.  I  told  Phanion's  story  to  M.  Le  Menil,  and  he 
was  very  pleased  with  it.  A  hunter  had  given  her  a  leveret, 
taken  from  the  mother  when  she  was  still  feeding  it. 
Phanion  took  it  in  her  lap  and  gave  it  spring  flowers  to  eat. 
It  loved  Phanion  and  forgot  its  mother.  It  died  of  eating 
too  many  flowers.  Phanion  mourned  over  it.  She  buried 
it  in  the  garden,  beneath  the  lemon-trees  in  a  grave,  which 
she  could  see  from  her  bed.  And  the  poet's  singing  consoled 
the  shade  of  the  leveret." 

Kind  Madame  Marmet  said  that  M.  Le  Menil  had  a  dis- 
cretion and  a  charm  of  manner  seldom  met  with  in  the 
young  men  of  the  present  day.  She  would  have  liked  to  see 
him.  She  wanted  ta  ask  him  to  do  her  a  service. 


THE  RED  LILY  167 

"It  is  on  behalf  of  my  nephew,"  she  said.  "He  is  an  ar- 
tillery captain,  well  thought  of  and  very  popular  with  his 
superior  officers.  His  colonel  has  for  some  time  been  at- 
tached to  M.  Le  Menil's  uncle,  General  de  La  Briche.  If 
M.  Le  Menil  would  be  so  kind  as  to  ask  his  uncle  to  write  a 
few  lines  recommending  my  nephew  to  Colonel  Faure,  I 
should  be  very  grateful  to  him.  Besides,  M.  Le  Menil 
knows  my  nephew.  They  met  last  year  at  Caen,  at  th« 
fancy  dress  ball  given  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  by  Captain 
de  Lessay  to  the  officers  of  the  garrison  and  the  ycung  men 
of  the  neighbourhood." 

Looking  down,  Madame  Marmet  added: 

"The  women  there  were  of  course  not  in  society,  but  I 
heard  that  some  were  very  pretty.  Many  had  been  brought 
from  Paris.  My  nephew,  who  told  me  about  it,  was  dressed 
as  a  postillion;  M.  Le  Menil  as  one  of  the  Black  Hussars;  * 
he  was  a  great  success." 

Miss  Bell  said  she  regretted  not  having  known  that  M. 
Le  Menil  was  at  Florence.  She  would  have  liked  to  invite 
him  to  come  to  Fiesole. 

Dechartre  was  gloomy  and  distracted  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  And,  when  they  parted,  Therese  noticed  that  he 
did  not  press  her  hand. 

*A  cavalry  regiment  founded  by  Frederick  the  Great;  the 
sabres  of  these  hussars  were  engraved  with  a  skull  and  two  cross 
bones.— W.S. 


XXIII 

E  next  day  when  they  met  in  the  little  house  in  the 

_  Via  Alfieri,  she  found  him  anxious.  At  first,  by  an  ex- 
uberance of  gaiety,  by  the  charm  of  her  tenderness  and  by 
the  proud  humility  of  a  mistress  who  offers  her  beauty,  she 
tried  to  dispel  his  melancholy.  But  he  continued  depressed. 
All  night  long  he  had  been  thinking  and  pondering  and  re- 
flecting on  his  sorrow  and  his  distress.  His  mind  discerned 
a  relation  between  the  hand  posting  the  letter  in  front  of 
the  bronze  San  Marco  and  the  commonplace  but  menacing 
stranger  seen  at  the  railway  station.  Now  Jacques  De- 
chartre  had  a  name  for  his  anguish.  An  army  of  dark 
fancies  assailed  him  as  he  sat,  at  Therese's  invitation,  in  the 
grandmother's  chair  she  had  occupied  on  the  day  of  her 
first  happy  coming.  She  meanwhile  leant  upon  his  arm  and 
pressed  against  it  her  soft  figure  and  her  warm,  loving  heart. 
The  cause  of  his  sorrow  she  knew  too  well  to  ask. 

Trying  to  suggest  pleasant  thoughts  she  reminded  him  of 
the  secrets  that  room  enclosed  and  of  their  walks  through 
the  city.  She  lavished  upon  him  all  the  graces  of  intimacy. 

"You  remember  that  little  spoon  you  gave  me  under  the 
Lanzi,  with  the  red  lily  for  a  handle,"  she  said.  "I  use  it 
every  morning  for  my  tea.  When  I  awake,  the  delight  I  feel 
at  the  sight  of  it  tells  me  how  much  I  love  you." 

Then,  when  he  answered  in  sad  mysterious  words,  she 
said: 

"I  am  here  at  your  side,  and  you  are  not  thinking  of  me. 
You  are  occupied  with  some  idea  of  which  I  am  ignorant. 
Nevertheless,  I  exist,  and  your  idea  is  nothing." 

"An  idea  is  nothing?  Do  you  think  so?  An  idea  can 
render  us  happy  or  miserable.  An  idea  can  kill  us  or  make 
MS  live.  Yes,  I  am  thinking  ..." 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?  You  know.  I  am  thinking  of 
what  I  heard  yesterday,  of  what  you  have  concealed  from 
ine — I  am  thinking  of  a  meeting  yesterday,  at  the  station. 


THE  RED  LILY  169 

It  was  not  the  result  of  chance,  but  had  been  arranged  by  a 
letter  posted — do  you  remember? — in  the  letter-box  of  Or 
San  Michele.  Oh!  I  don't  reproach  you.  I  haven't  the 
right.  But  why  did  you  become  mine,  if  you  were  not  free?" 

She  thought  it  best  to  lie. 

"If  you  mean  the  person  I  met  at  the  station  yesterday  I 
assure  you  it  was  a  meeting  of  no  consequence." 

He  noticed  sorrowfully  that  she  dared  not  name  him  of 
whom  she  spoke.  He  also  avoided  pronouncing  his  name. 

"Therese,  did  he  not  come  here  to  see  you?  Did  you  not 
know  that  he  was  at  Florence?  Is  he  nothing  more  to  you 
than  a  man  you  meet  in  society  and  receive  in  your  own 
home?  Was  it  not  on  his  account  that  you  said  to  me  on 
the  Arno  bank:  'I  cannot!'  Is  he  nothing  to  you?" 

She  replied  resolutely: 

"Sometimes  he  comes  to  see  me.  General  Lariviere  intro- 
duced him.  I  have  nothing  else  to  tell  you.  I  assure  you 
that  he  does  not  interest  me  in  the  slightest,  and  that  I  can- 
not think  what  you  are  imagining." 

It  gave  her  a  kind  of  pleasure  thus  to  deny  the  man  who 
had  so  violently  and  so  sternly  asserted  his  rights  over  her. 
But  she  hastened  to  be  frank  once  more.  With  her  beautiful 
soft  serious  eyes  she  looked  at  her  lover  and  said: 

"Listen:  from  the  day  when  I  became  yours  my  life  has 
belonged  to  you  entirely.  If  you  have  a  doubt,  a  single 
anxiety,  question  me.  The  present  is  yours  and  yours  only, 
you  know.  As  for  my  past,  if  you  knew  how  empty  it  was 
you  would  be  happy.  I  cannot  think  that  any  woman,  made 
for  love  as  I  am,  could  have  brought  you  a  heart  more  com- 
pletely yours.  That  I  swear  to  you.  During  the  years  be- 
fore I  knew  you,  I  did  not  live.  Don't  let  us  talk  of  them. 
There  is  nothing  in  them  of  which  I  need  be  ashamed. 
Regret!  that  is  another  matter.  I  regret  having  known  you 
so  late.  Why  did  you  not  come  earlier,  my  love?  Five 
years  ago  I  would  have  given  myself  to  you  as  willingly  as 
to-day.  But  do  not  let  us  question  the  years  that  are  past. 
Remember  Lohengrin.  If  you  love  me,  I  am  your  Knight 
of  the  Swan.  I  have  asked  you  nothing.  I  have  wanted  to 
know  nothing.  I  have  not  reproached  you  with  Made- 
moiselle Jeanne  Tancrede.  I  saw  that  you  loved  me,  that 


i/o  THE  RED  LILY 

you  were  in  trouble;  and  that  was  enough,  because  I  loved 
you." 

"A  woman  can't  be  jealous  like  a  man,  nor  can  she  feel 
what  causes  us  the  sharpest  agony." 

"I  don't  know.    Why  not?" 

"Why?  Because  in  the  blood,  in  the  flesh  of  a  woman 
there  is  not  that  ridiculous  yet  noble  desire  for  possession, 
that  ancient  instinct  which  man  claims  as  his  right.  Man 
is  a  god  whose  creature  must  be  his  alone.  From  time  im- 
memorial woman  has  shared  her  possessions.  Our  passions 
have  their  roots  in  the  past,  the  obscure  past.  When  we  are 
born  we  are  already  old.  For  a  woman  jealousy  is  merely 
the  wounding  of  her  self-love.  In  man  it  is  an  agony  with 
all  the  acuteness  of  mental  suffering  and  all  the  persistence 
of  physical  pain.  .  .  .  You  ask  why?  Because,  in  spite 
of  my  submissiveness  and  my  respect,  in  spite  of  the  fear 
with  which  you  inspire  me,  you  are  matter,  I  am  thought, 
you  are  the  chattel,  I  am  the  soul,  you  are  the  clay,  I  am  the 
potter.  Oh,  you  need  not  complain.  What  is  the  rude  and 
humble  potter  by  the  side  of  the  rounded  amphora  be- 
wreathed  with  garlands?  She  is  calm  and  beautiful.  He  is 
miserable.  He  is  in  torture:  he  wills  and  he  suffers;  for  to 
will  is  to  suffer.  Yes  I  am  jealous.  I  know  what  my  jeal- 
ousy is.  When  I  analyse  it,  I  find  it  compounded  of  heredi- 
tary prejudice,  savage  pride,  diseased  sensibility,  a  mingling 
of  stupid  violence  and  cruel  weakness,  foolish  and  wicked 
rebellion  against  the  laws  of  life  and  the  universe.  But  it  is 
useless  for  me  to  contemplate  it  in  all  its  nakedness:  it  is 
and  it  tortures  me.  I  am  the  chemist,  who  studying  the 
properties  of  the  acid  he  has  drunk,  knows  with  what  bases 
it  can  combine  and  what  salts  it  can  form.  But  the  acid 
meanwhile  is  burning  him  and  will  burn  him  to  the  marrow 
of  his  bones." 

"My  love,  you  are  absurd." 

"Yes,  I  am  absurd.  I  know  it  better  than  you.  To  de- 
sire a  woman  in  the  flower  of  her  beauty  and  her  intelli- 
gence, mistress  of  herself,  who  knows  and  dares  and  is  in 
that  all  the  more  beautiful  and  desirable,  who  can  choose 
with  insight,  free  and  unfettered;  to  desire  her,  to  love  her 
for  all  that  she  is  and  to  suffer  because  she  possesses  neither 


THE  RED  LILY  171 

the  childish  candour,  nor  the  pale  innocence,  which  would 
shock  one  in  her,  if  it  were  possible  to  find  them;  to  ask  her 
to  be  at  once  herself  and  not  herself,  to  adore  her  for  what 
life  has  made  her  and  yet  to  regret  bitterly  that  life,  which 
has  made  her  so  beautiful,  should  have  even  touched  her. 
Oh!  it  is  absurd.  I  love  you,  do  you  understand,  I  love  you 
with  all  that  you  bring  me  of  sensations  and  habits,  with  all 
that  your  experience  has  taught  you,  with  all  that  may  even 
come  from  him,  from  them,  how  can  I  tell?  .  .  .  This  is 
my  delight,  this  is  my  agony.  There  must  be  some  pro- 
found meaning  in  that  popular  imbecility  which  regards  love 
as  a  crime.  Joy  when  it  is  intense  is  a  crime.  That  is  why 
I  suffer,  my  beloved." 

She  knelt  before  him,  took  his  hands,  and  drew  him  to 
her. 

"I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  suffer  and  I  cannot  let  you.  It 
would  be  madness.  I  love  you,  and  I  have  never  loved 
any  but  you.  You  may  believe  me,  I  am  speaking  the 
truth." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  "If  you  were  deceiving 
me,  darling,  I  should  bear  you  no  ill-will  for  it.  On  the 
contrary  I  should  be  grateful.  What  can  be  more  lawful, 
more  human  than  to  deceive  sorrow?  What  would  become 
of  us  if  women  did  not  take  pity  and  lie?  Yes,  lie,  my 
beloved,  lie  in  all  charity.  Give  me  the  dream  which  shall 
gladden  the  night  of  my  sorrow.  Lie  fearlessly;  you  will 
but  add  one  more  illusion  to  that  of  love  and  beauty." 

He  sighed: 

"Oh!  for  common  sense,  for  common  wisdom!" 

She  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  common  wisdom.  He 
replied  that  it  was  a  wise  but  a  brutal  proverb  and  that  he 
had  better  not  repeat  it. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said. 

"You  really  want  me  to  tell  you:  'The  mouth  that  is 
kissed  keeps  its  freshness.'  " 

And  he  added: 

"It  is  true  that  love  preserves  beauty,  and  that  a  woman 
feeds  on  caresses  as  a  bee  feeds  on  flowers." 

"I  swear  to  you,"  she  replied,  "that  I  have  never  loved 
but  you.  No  caresses  have  preserved  any  beauty  I  may  be 


172  THE  RED  LILY 

so  fortunate  as  to  have  to  offer  you.  I  love  you.  I  swear  I 
love  only  you." 

And  she  sealed  her  oath  with  a  kiss  on  his  lips. 

But  he  remembered  the  Or  San  Michele  letter  and  the 
Stranger  at  the  railway  station. 

"If  you  really  loved  me  you  would  not  love  any  one  else." 

She  rose  indignant. 

"Then  you  think  that  I  love  another?  But  what  you  say 
is  horrible.  That's  what  you  think  of  me.  And  then  you 
gay  that  you  love  me.  ...  I  pity  you;  you  are  mad." 

"Yes,  I  am  mad.    Say  so.    Say  so  again." 

Kneeling  at  his  feet  she  took  his  face  in  her  soft  hands. 
She  told  him  he  was  mad  to  trouble  so  much  about  an  in- 
significant meeting.  She  made  him  believe  her,  or  rather 
she  induced  him  to  forget.  He  saw,  he  knew,  he  felt  nothing 
but  those  slight  hands,  those  burning  lips,  that  eager  mouth, 
that  heaving  breast  and  all  those  charms  that  were  his. 
His  only  thought  was  to  lose  himself  in  her.  His  wrath  and 
bitterness  vanished;  and  there  remained  the  keen  desire  to 
forget  everything  and  make  her  forget  everything  in  a 
voluptuous  unconsciousness.  Goaded  by  anxiety  and  desire, 
she  showed  the  passion  she  aroused ;  she  realised  at  once  her 
power  and  her  weakness,  inspired  by  the  half  unconscious 
will  to  give  more  of  herself  than  ever,  she  gave  love  for  love 
with  an  instinctive  ardour  she  had  never  experienced  before. 

In  the  warm  shaded  room,  the  sun's  golden  beams  were 
falling  on  the  hems  of  the  curtains,  and  the  basket  of  straw- 
berries beside  a  bottle  of  Asti  wine  on  the  table.  By  the 
bedside,  there  was  a  smile  on  the  faded  lips  of  the  Venetian 
lady's  clearly  outlined  form.  On  the  screens  the  Bergamo 
and  Verona  masks  laughed  joyously  in  silence.  A  full  blown 
rose  in  a  glass  was  dropping  its  leaves  one  by  one.  The 
silence  was  redolent  of  love;  they  sank  down  weary  with 
passion. 

She  fell  asleep  on  her  lover's  breast.  Her  pleasure  con- 
tinued in  her  light  slumber.  When  she  opened  her  eyes,  she 
said,  joyfully: 

"I  love  you." 

With  his  elbow  on  the  pillow,  he  was  looking  at  her  in 
dumb  anguish. 


THE  RED  LILY  173 

She  asked  him  why  he  was  sad. 

"You  were  so  happy  a  few  minutes  ago.  Why  aren't  you 
now?" 

But  he  shook  his  head  and  did  not  speak: 

"Do  say.  I  would  rather  hear  you  complain  than  that 
you  should  be  silent." 

Then  he  said: 

"You  want  to  know.  Then  do  not  be  angry.  My  grief 
is  greater  than  ever,  because  now  I  know  what  you  can 
give." 

She  drew  away  quickly,  her  eyes  full  of  sorrow  and  re- 
proach. 

"Can  you  think  that  I  have  ever  been  to  another  what  I 
am  to  you!  You  wound  my  most  tender  feeling,  my  love 
for  you.  I  cannot  forgive  you.  I  love  you.  I  have  never 
loved  another.  You  alone  have  caused  me  to  suffer.  Be 
happy.  You  wound  me  to  the  quick.  .  .  .  Can  you  be 
cruel?" 

"Therese,  when  one  loves  one  is  never  kind." 

Sitting  on  the  bed,  with  her  legs  hanging  down,  like  a 
bather's,  she  remained  long  motionless  and  lost  in  thought. 
A  blush  spread  over  her  face,  which  had  been  pale  with 
passion,  and  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"Therese,  you  are  crying." 

"Forgive  me,  dear.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  loved  and 
been  really  loved.  I  am  afraid." 


XXIV 

IN  the  Villa  of  Bells  there  was  heard  the  heavy  thud  of 
trunks  being  brought  down  the  staircase.  Pauline  loaded 
with  bundles  was  tripping  down  the  steps.  Kind  Madame 
Marmet  with  calm  solicitude  was  watching  the  despatch  of 
the  luggage;  and  Miss  Bell  was  dressing  in  her  room. 
Therese  in  a  grey  travelling  gown  was  leaning  against  the 
balustrade  of  the  terrace,  and  taking  one  last  look  at  the 
City  of  the  Flower. 

She  had  decided  to  go.  In  every  letter  her  husband 
clamoured  for  her  return.  If,  as  he  urgently  entreated,  she 
returned  to  Paris  early  in  May,  they  might  give  two  or 
three  political  dinners,  followed  by  receptions,  before  the 
Grand  Prix.  His  party  was  being  borne  into  power  on  a 
wave  of  public  opinion;  and  Garain  thought  that  Countess 
Martin's  salon  might  exercise  an  excellent  influence  on  the 
country's  future.  Such  reasons  did  not  appeal  strongly  to 
her;  but  now  she  felt  kindly  disposed  towards  her  husband, 
and  wished  to  please  him.  Two  days  before  she  had  heard 
from  her  father.  M.  Montessuy  did  not  discuss  his  son-in- 
law's  political  projects,  neither  did  he  give  advice  to  his 
daughter;  but  he  contrived  to  let  her  understand  that  people 
were  talking  about  Countess  Martin's  mysterious  visit  to 
Florence,  where  she  was  said  to  be  leading  a  somewhat 
fantastic,  sentimental  existence,  with  poets  and  artists  at 
the  Villa  of  Bells.  She  herself  felt  that  she  was  too  closely 
watched  in  the  little  world  of  Fiesole.  In  her  new  life, 
Madame  Marmet  worried  her,  and  Prince  Albertinelli  caused 
her  anxiety.  Her  rendez-vous  in  the  Via  Alfieri  were  be- 
coming dangerous  and  difficult.  Professor  Arrighi,  a  friend 
of  the  Prince,  had  met  her  one  evening,  walking  in  a  lonely 
street,  on  Dechartre's  arm.  Professor  Arrighi,  author  of  a 
treatise  on  agriculture,  was  the  most  amiable  of  scholars. 
He  had  turned  away  his  handsome  heroic  face,  with  its  white 
moustache,  and  merely  remarked  to  her  the  next  day: 

*'I  used  to  be  able  to  divine  the  approach  of  a  beautiful 
174 


THE  RED  LILY  175 

woman  from  a  distance.  Now  that  I  have  passed  the  age 
when  ladies  like  to  look  at  me,  the  gods  are  pitiful:  they 
spare  me  the  sight  of  them.  My  eyes  are  very  bad,  and  can- 
not recognise  even  the  most  charming  face."  She  under- 
stood and  accepted  the  warning.  She  now  longed  to  hide 
her  happiness  in  the  immensity  of  Paris. 

Vivian,  to  whom  she  had  announced  her  approaching  de- 
parture, had  urged  her  to  stay  a  few  days  longer.  But 
Therese  suspected  that  her  friend  was  still  shocked  at  the 
advice  she  had  received  one  night  in  the  tapestried  room, 
and  that  she  was  no  longer  quite  happy  in  the  society  of  a 
confidant  who  disapproved  of  her  choice;  she  imagined  also 
that  the  Prince  had  represented  her  as  a  flirt,  and,  possibly, 
as  immoral.  Her  departure  was  fixed  for  the  5th  of  May. 

It  was  a  clear  bright  day  in  the  valley  of  the  Arno. 
Therese,  as  she  dreamed,  saw  the  blue  basin  illumined  by 
the  morning's  rosy  light.  She  leant  forward,  trying  to 
descry,  at  the  foot  of  the  flower  covered  slope,  the  barely 
discernible  spot,  where  she  had  known  infinite  joy.  Far 
below,  she  saw  a  little  dark  spot  which  was  the  cemetery- 
garden  and  near  at  hand  she  knew  was  the  Via  Alfieri. 
There  came  before  her  a  vision  of  that  dear  room  she  would 
never  again  enter.  Those  hours  passed  beyond  recall  had 
all  the  sadness  of  a  dream.  She  felt  her  eyes  grow  dim,  her 
knees  tremble,  and  her  spirit  fail.  She  seemed  to  be  leaving 
her  life  behind  in  that  spot  near  the  dark  cypress-trees. 
She  reproached  herself  with  feeling  troubled  when  she  ought 
to  be  glad  and  confident.  She  knew  she  would  see  Jacques 
Dechartre  at  Paris.  They  would  have  liked  to  arrive  at  the 
same  time,  or  rather  to  travel  together.  Although  they  had 
judged  it  best  for  him  to  stay  three  or  four  days  longer  at 
Florence,  their  meeting  was  not  far  off,  already  it  was  fixed 
and  she  was  living  in  the  thought  of  it.  Her  love  was  her 
life,  her  very  flesh  and  blood.  Nevertheless  she  was  leaving 
a  part  of  herself  in  the  house  of  goats  and  nymphs,  a  part 
of  herself  which  would  never  come  back  to  her.  In  the 
height  of  life's  vigour  she  was  dying  to  things  infinitely 
precious  and  delicate.  She  remembered  that  Dechartre  had 
said:  "The  lover  is  a  fetich  worshipper;  on  the  terrace  I 
gathered  some  dry  black  privet  berries  that  you  had  looked 


i;6  THE  RED  LILY 

at."  Why  had  she  not  thought  of  bringing  away  one  little 
stone  of  the  house  where  she  had  forgotten  the  world? 

A  cry  from  Pauline  disturbed  her  revery.  Bounding  from 
behind  a  brown  bush,  Choulette  had  suddenly  kissed  the 
maid  as  she  was  carrying  bags  and  cloaks  to  the  carriage. 
Now  he  was  running  along  the  path  as  gay  as  a  satyr,  with 
ears  pricked  up  horn-like  on  each  side  of  his  shining  skull. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said  to  Countess  Martin.  "So  I 
must  bid  you  farewell,  Madame." 

He  was  remaining  in  Italy  at  the  behest  of  a  lady;  that 
lady  was  Rome.  He  wanted  to  see  the  cardinals.  One  of 
them,  said  to  be  a  man  of  sense,  might  possibly  entertain  the 
idea  of  Choulette 's  socialist  and  revolutionary  church.  His 
object  was  to  plant  on  the  ruins  of  a  cruel  and  unjust  civi- 
lisation the  cross  of  Calvary,  no  longer  bare  and  dead,  but 
alive  and  sheltering  the  world  beneath  its  living  arms.  For 
the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose  he  was  founding  an  order 
and  a  newspaper.  Madame  Martin  knew  the  order.  The 
newspaper,  which  was  to  cost  a  halfpenny,  would  be  couched 
in  rhythmic  phrases  and  plaintive  lines.  It  could  and 
should  be  sung.  Verse,  if  it  were  very  simple,  passionate 
or  gay,  was  really  the  only  language  suitable  for  the  people. 
Prose  was  only  for  persons  of  subtle  intelligence.  He  had 
met  anarchists  among  the  money-changers  of  the  Rue  Saint- 
Jacques.  They  passed  their  evenings  reciting  and  listening 
to  ballads. 

And  he  added: 

"A  newspaper  which  should  be  a  collection  of  songs 
would  appeal  to  the  heart  of  the  people.  They  say  I  am  a 
genius.  I  don't  know  whether  they  are  right.  But  at  least 
you  must  admit  that  I  have  a  practical  mind." 

Miss  Bell  was  coming  down  the  steps,  putting  on  her 
gloves. 

"Oh!  darling,  the  town  and  the  mountains  and  the  sky 
are  determined  to  make  you  weep  when  you  bid  them  good- 
bye. They  clothe  themselves  in  beauty  to-day  to  make  you 
regret  leaving  them  and  long  to  see  them  again." 

But  Choulette,  weary  of  the  parched  brilliance  of  the 
Tuscan  landscape,  pined  for  green  Umbria  and  its  cloudy 
sky.  He  remembered  Assisi,  standing  as  if  at  prayer,  in  her 


THE  RED  LILY  177 

fertile  pasture,  in  the  midst  of  a  mellower  humbler  country. 

"There,"  he  said,  "are  woods  and  rocks,  and  glades, 
above  which  may  be  seen  the  sky  with  white,  fleecy  clouds 
I  walked  in  the  footsteps  of  St.  Francis,  and  I  put  his  hymn 
to  the  Sun  into  good  old  simple  French  rhymes." 

Madame  Martin  said  she  would  like  to  hear  it.  Miss  Bell 
was  listening  already,  and  on  her  face  was  a  rapt  expression, 
which  made  her  look  like  one  of  Mine's  angels. 

Choulette  warned  them  that  it  was  artless  and  unpolished. 
The  lines  laid  no  claim  to  be  beautiful.  They  were  simple 
and  unequal,  so  as  not  to  be  heavy.  Then  slowly  and  in  a 
monotonous  voice,  he  recited  the  hymn. 

Je  vous  louerai,  mon  Dieu,  d'avoir  fait  aimable  et  clair 
Ce  monde  ou  vous  voulez  que  nous  attendions  de  vivre. 
Vous  1'avez  seme  d'or,  d'emeraude  et  d'outremer, 
Cotnme  un  peintre  qui  met  des  peintures  dans  un  livre. 

Je  vous  louerai  d'avoir  cree  le  seigneur  Soleil, 
Qui  luit  a  tout  le  monde,  et  de  1'avoir  voulu  faire 
Aussi  beau  qu'il  est  bon,  tres  digne  de  vous,  vermeil, 
Splendide  et  rayonnant,  en  forme  exacte  de  sphere. 

Je  vous  louerai,  mon  Dieu,  pour  notre  frere  le  Vent, 
Pour  notre  soeur  la  Lune  et  pour  nos  sceurs  les  Etoiles, 
Et  d'avoir  au  ciel  bleu  mis  le  nuage  mouvant 
Et  tendu  les  vapeurs  du  matin  comme  des  toiles. 

Je  vous  louerai,  Seigneur,  je  vous  benirai,  mon  Dieu, 
Pour  le  brin  de  1'hysope  et  le  cime  de  1'yeuse, 
Pour  mon  frere  terrible  et  plein  de  bonte,  le  Feu, 
Et  pour  1'Eau,  notre  soeur  humble,  chaste  et  precieuse. 

Pour  la  Terre  qui,  forte,  a  son  sein  vetu  du  fleurs, 
Nourrit  la  mere  avec  1'enfant  riant  dans  les  langes, 
Et  rhomme  qui  vous  aime,  et  le  pauvre  dont  les  pleurs 
Au  sortir  de  ses  yeux  vous  sont  portes  par  les  anges. 

Pour  notre  soeur  la  Vie  et  pour  notre  soeur  la  Mort, 
Je  vous  louerai,  Seigneur,  d'ores  a  mon  ultime  heure, 
Afin  d'etre  en  mourant  le  nourrisson  qui  s'endort 
Dans  la  belle  vespree  et  pour  une  aube  meilleure."  * 

*  Here  follow  the  Italian  original  and  Mrs.  Oliphant's  transla- 
tion, from  her  "Life  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,"  1868,  the  latter 
by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Macmillan. — W.S. 


17?  THE  RED  LILY 

"Oh!  Monsieur  Choulette,"  said  Miss  Bell,  "this  hymn 
ascends  to  heaven,  like  the  hermit  in  the  Campo  Santo  at 
Pisa,  who  is  climbing  the  mountain  on  which  goats  love  to 
graze.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is:  the  hermit  is  going  up, 
leaning  on  the  staff  of  faith;  and  his  step  is  unequal,  be- 
cause the  stick  being  on  one  side,  one  of  his  feet  moves  more 
quickly  than  the  other.  That  is  why  your  lines  are  unequal. 
Oh!  I  understand." 

The  poet  accepted  this  praise,  persuaded  that  uncon- 
sciously he  had  deserved  it. 

"You  have  faith,  Monsieur  Choulette,"   said  Therese, 

1 

Altissimu,  onnipotente,  bon  signore, 
Tue  so  le  laude  la  gloria  e  1'onore 
E  onne  benedictione, 
A  te  solu,  altissimu,  se  konfanno: 
E  nullu  homo  ene  dignu  te  mentovare. 

2 

Laudatu  si,  mi  signore, 
Cum  tucte  le  tue  creature 
Spetialmente  messer  lu  frate  sole, 
Lu  quale  lu  iorno  allumeni  per  nui; 
E  ellu  e  bellu  e  radiante  cum  grande  splendore; 
De  te,  altissimu,  porta  significatione. 

3 

Laudatu  si,  mi  signore,  per  sora  luna  e  le  stelle; 
In  celu  1'ai  formate  clarite  e  pretiose  e  belle. 

4 

Laudatu  si,  mi  signore,  per  frate  ventu 
E  per  acre  e  nubilo  e  sereno  e  onne  tempu, 
Per  le  quale  a  le  tue  creature  dai  sustentamentu. 

5 

Laudatu  si,  mi  signore,  per  sor  aqua, 
La  quale  e  multo  utile  e  humele  e  pretiosa  e  casta. 

6 

Laudatu  si,  mi  signore, 

Per  frate  focu,  per  la  quale  n'allumeni  la  nocte; 
E  ellu  e  bellu  e  iocondu  e  robustosu  e  forte. 


THE  RED  LILY  179 

"What  good  does  it  do  you  if  it  doesn't  help  you  to  write 
good  verses?" 

"It  helps  me  to  sin,  Madame." 

"Oh!     We  can  sin  without  it." 

Madame  Marmet  appeared,  ready  for  the  journey.  With 
placid  pleasure  she  was  looking  forward  to  returning  to  her 
little  flat  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chaise,  her  little  dog  Toby,  and 
her  old  friend  M.  Lagrange.  After  the  Etruscans  of  Fiesole, 
she  would  be  glad  to  see  her  own  domestic  warrior  among 


Laudatu  si,  mi  signore,  per  sora  nostra  matre  terra, 

La  quale  ne  sustenta  e  governa 

E  produce  diversi  fructi  e  colorati  flori  e  herba. 

8 

Laudatu  si,  mi  signore, 
Per  quilli  ke  perdonano  per  lo  tuo  amore 
E  sostengo  infirmitate  e  tribulatione : 
Beati  quilli  ke  le  sosterrano  in  pace, 
Ka  da  te,  altissimu,  sirano  incoronati. 


Laudatu  si,  mi  signore,  per  sora  nostra  morte  corporate, 

Da  la  quale  nullu  homo  vivente  po  skampare : 

Guai  a  quilli  ke  morrano  in  peccato  mortale ; 

Beati  quilli  ke  se  trovara  ne  le  tue  sanctissime  voluntate, 

Ka  la  morte  secunda  non  li  potera  far  male : 

10 

Laudate  e  benedicete  lu  mi  signore  e  rengratiate 
E  servite  a  lui  cum  grande  humilitate. 

Amen 


THE  CANTICLE  OF  THE  SUN,  OR  THE  SONG  OF  THE 
CREATURES. 

Highest  omnipotent  good  Lord, 

Glory  and  honour  to  Thy  name  adored, 

And  praise  and  every  blessing — 

Of  everything  Thou  art  the  source — 

No  man  is  worthy  to  pronounce  Thy  name. 


i8o  THE  RED  LILY 

the  sweet-meat  boxes,  looking  out  of  the  window  across  the 
Place  du  Bon  Marche. 

Miss  Bell  drove  her  friends  to  the  station  in  her  trap. 


Praised  by  His  creatures  all, 

Praised  be  the  Lord  my  God, 

By  Messer  Sun,  my  brother  above  all, 

Who  by  his  rays  lights  us  and  lights  the  day; 

Radiant  is  she  with  his  great  splendour  stored, 

Thy  glory.  Lord,  confessing. 

By  Sister  Moon  and  Stars  my  Lord  is  praised, 
Where  clear  and  fair  they  in  the  heavens  are  raised. 

By  Brother  Wind,  my  Lord,  Thy  praise  is  said, 
By  air  and  clouds  and  the  blue  sky  o'erhead, 
By  which  Thy  creatures  all  are  kept  and  fed, 
By  one  most  humble,  useful,  precious,  chaste, 
By  Sister  Water,  O  my  Lord,  Thou  art  praised. 

And  praised  is  my  Lord 

By  Brother  Fire, — he  who  lights  up  the  night — 

Jocund,  robust  is  he,  and  strong  and  bright. 

Praised  art  Thou,  my  Lord,  by  Mother  Earth — 

Thou  who  sustainest  her  and  governest, 

And  to  her  flowers,  fruit,  herbs,  dost  colour  give  and  birth. 

And  praised  is  my  Lord 

By  those  who,  for  Thy  love,  can  pardon  give, 

And  bear  the  weakness  and  the  wrongs  of  men, 

Blessed  are  those  who  suffer  thus  in  peace, 

By  Thee,  the  Highest,  to  be  crowned  in  Heaven. 

Praised  by  our  Sister  Death,  my  Lord,  art  Thou, 

From  whom  no  living  man  escapes. 

Who  die  in  mortal  sin  have  mortal  woe ; 

But  blessed  they  who  die  doing  Thy  will, — 

The  second  death  can  strike  at  them  no  blow.         ,«*! 

Praises  and  thanks  and  blessing  to  my  Master  be, 

Serve  ye  Him  all  with  great  humility. 


XXV 

DECHARTRE  had  come  to  the  carriage  door  to  bid 
the  travellers  good-bye.  Parted  from  him,  Therese 
realised  all  he  was  to  her:  he  had  given  her  life  a  new  and 
delicious  zest,  so  keen,  so  real,  that  she  seemed  to  feel  the 
savour  of  it  on  her  lips.  She  was  living  as  if  under  a  spell, 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  him  again ;  her  happy  revery  was  only 
occasionally  broken,  when  Madame  Marmet  remarked  dur- 
ing the  journey:  "I  think  we  are  crossing  the  frontier,"  or 
"Look  at  the  rose-trees  in  bloom  on  the  seashore."  Her 
inward  joy  remained  with  her  when,  after  a  night  in  a  Mar- 
seilles hotel,  she  saw  the  grey  olive  trees  in  their  stony  fields, 
then  the  mulberry  trees  and  the  distant  outline  of  Mount 
Pilatus,  and  the  Rhone,  and  Lyons,  and  then  the  familiar 
country,  the  tops  of  the  clusters  of  trees,  recently  dark  and 
violet,  now  clothed  in  tender  green,  the  hill  slopes  carpeted 
with  little  lines  of  cultivated  land,  and  the  rows  of  poplars 
along  the  river  banks.  The  journey  passed  smoothly  for  her. 
She  was  tasting  the  fulness  of  past  hours  and  the  wonder  of 
deep  joy.  When  the  train  stopped  in  the  blue  light  of  the 
station,  it  was  with  the  smile  of  an  awakened  sleeper  that 
she  greeted  her  husband,  delighted  to  see  her  back.  Kissing 
kind  Madame  Marmet,  she  told  her  she  thanked  her  with 
all  her  heart.  And  truly,  she  thanked  everything,  like 
Choulette's  St.  Francis. 

In  the  carriage,  driving  along  the  quays  in  the  glow  of 
the  setting  sun,  she  listened  patiently  to  her  husband's 
story  of  his  oratorical  successes,  the  plans  of  his  party, 
his  own  projects  and  hopes,  and  the  necessity  of  giving 
two  or  three  big  political  dinners.  She  closed  her  eyes 
to  think  better.  She  said  to  herself:  "I  shall  have  a  letter 
to-morrow;  and  I  shall  see  him  again  in  a  week."  When 
the  carriage  had  crossed  the  bridge,  she  looked  at  the  water 
all  on  fire  with  the  reflection  of  the  sunset,  at  the  smoky 
arches  of  the  bridge,  the  rows  of  plane-trees  and  the 
chestnut-trees  in  flower  in  the  quincunxes  of  Cours-la-Reine; 


182  THE  RED  LILY 

all  these  familiar  sights  wore  a  new  loveliness  in  her  eyes. 
It  seemed  as  if  her  love  had  given  a  new  colour  to  the 
universe.  And  she  asked  herself  if  the  stones  and  trees 
recognised  her.  She  was  wondering  how  it  was  that  her 
silence,  her  eyes,  her  very  flesh,  and  the  sky  and  the  earth 
did  not  cry  out  her  secret.  M.  Martin-Belleme,  thinking 
she  was  tired,  advised  her  to  rest.  And  at  night,  locked 
in  her  room,  amid  a  silence  so  intense  that  she  could  hear 
her  heart  beat,  she  wrote  her  absent  lover  a  letter  full 
of  those  words  which  are  like  flowers  in  their  perennial 
freshness:  "I  love  you,  I  wait  for  you.  I  am  happy.  I 
feel  you  near  me;  you  and  I  are  alone  in  the  world.  From 
my  window  I  see  a  twinkling  blue  star.  I  look  at  it  and 
think  that  you  also  may  be  gazing  at  it  from  Florence.  I 
have  put  the  spoon  with  its  red  lily  handle  on  my  table. 
Come.  I  long  for  you  from  afar.  Come!"  And  thus 
she  found  ever  new  in  her  heart  those  thoughts  and  sensa- 
tions which  are  eternal. 

For  a  week  she  lived  this  inner  life,  in  the  sweet  memory 
of  days  in  the  Via  Alfieri,  feeling  still  the  impression  of 
kisses  she  had  received  and  loving  herself  because  another 
loved  her.  She  employed  the  greatest  care  and  the  most 
delicate  taste  in  ordering  her  new  dresses.  In  this  she 
pleased  and  aimed  at  pleasing  herself.  Madly  anxious  when 
there  was  nothing  for  her  at  the  post  office,  trembling  and 
glad  when  there  was  handed  to  her  from  behind  the  counter 
an  envelope  on  which  she  recognised  the  round  elaborate 
writing  of  her  lover.  Memories,  desires,  and  hopes  de- 
vourc-4  her;  and  thus  the  ardent  hours  passed  quickly  by. 

It  was  only  the  morning  of  the  day  of  his  arrival  that 
seemed  to  her  hatefully  long.  She  was  at  the  station  be- 
fore the  train  was  due.  It  was  announced  to  be  late,  and 
she  felt  crushed.  An  optimist,  and  like  her  father,  believ- 
ing that  fate  must  always  be  on  her  side,  this  unforeseen 
delay  seemed  to  her  like  treachery.  For  three-quarters 
of  an  hour,  the  grey  light  filtering  through  the  dull  win- 
dows of  the  station  seemed  to  fall  on  her  like  so  many 
grains  of  sand  in  an  hour-glass,  measuring  out  the  minutes 
of  her  lost  happiness.  She  was  despairing,  when  in  the 
red  light  of  the  setting  sun  she  saw  the  huge  engine  stop 


THE  RED  LILY  183 

gently  at  the  platform.  Jacques,  tall  and  slim,  came  to- 
wards her  out  of  the  crowd  of  travellers  hurrying  to  the 
cabs.  He  looked  at  her  with  that  kind  of  sombre,  violent 
delight  which  she  knew  so  well.  He  said: 

"Here  you  are  at  last.  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  die 
before  seeing  you  again.  You  do  not  know  and  I  did  not 
what  torture  it  is  to  live  a  week  away  from  you.  I  went 
back  to  the  little  house  in  the  Via  Alfieri.  In  the  room 
you  know  so  well,  before  the  old  pastel,  I  wept  tears  of 
love  and  passion." 

She  looked  up  at  him  full  of  happiness,  and  said: 

"And  don't  you  think  that  I  called  you,  that  I  wanted 
you,  that  even  when  I  was  alone,  I  stretched  out  my  arms 
to  you?  I  had  hidden  your  letters  in  the  cabinet  where 
I  keep  my  jewels.  I  used  to  reread  them  every  night:  it 
was  delightful,  but  it  was  imprudent.  Your  letters  were 
too  much  like  you,  and  yet  not  enough." 

They  crossed  the  station-yard,  among  the  cabs  piled 
with  luggage.  She  asked  him  if  they  were  not  going  to 
hire  a  carriage. 

He  did  not  reply,  and  seemed  not  to  hear.  She  re- 
sumed: 

"I  have  been  to  see  your  house,  but  I  dared  not  go  in. 
I  looked  through  the  gate,  and  at  the  end  of  a  court-yard, 
behind  a  plane-tree,  I  saw  mullioned  windows  with  rose 
trees  climbing  round  them.  And  I  said  to  myself:  'It  is 
there.'  I  felt  strangely  moved." 

He  was  no  longer  listening,  or  looking  at  her.  They 
crossed  the  pavement  quickly,  and  by  a  narrow  flight  of 
steps,  went  down  into  a  lonely  street  which  flanked  the 
lower  side  of  the  station-yard.  There,  among  wooden  sheds 
and  stores  of  coal,  was  an  inn  with  a  restaurant  on  the 
ground-floor,  and  tables  outside.  Under  the  painted  sign, 
white  curtains  were  to  be  seen  at  the  windows.  Dechartre 
stopped  at  the  little  door  and  pushed  Therese  into  the  dark 
passage. 

She  asked: 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?  What  time  is  it?  I  must 
be  at  home  at  half-past  seven.  We  are  mad." 

And  in  a  red-tiled  room,  furnished  with  a  walnut  bed- 


184  THE  RED  LILY 

stead,  and  a  carpet  in  the  pattern  of  a  lion,  they  tasted 
one  moment's  divine  oblivion. 

Coming  downstairs,  she  said:  "Jacques,  my  beloved,  we 
we  too  happy;  we  are  stealing  life." 


XXVI 

next  day  she  drove  in  a  cab  to  a  street  half  town, 
half  country,  half  sad  and  half  gay,  where  high  gar- 
den walls  alternated  with  newly  built  houses.  She  stopped 
where  the  pavement  passes  under  the  vaulted  arch  of  a 
mansion  in  the  Regency  style,  fantastically  spanning  the 
street,  now  covered  with  dust  and  oblivion.  Here  and 
there  among  the  stone-work,  green  branches  gladden  this 
corner  of  the  town. 

As  she  rang  at  the  little  gate,  in  the  perspective  limited 
by  the  houses,  Therese  saw  a  pulley  on  a  skylight  and  a 
big  gilded  key,  the  sign  of  a  lock-maker.  Her  glance  eagerly 
drank  in  these  sights  which  were  new  to  her  and  yet 
already  familiar.  Pigeons  flew  over  her  head,  and  she 
heard  the  clucking  of  fowls.  A  countrified  servant  with 
a  military  moustache  opened  the  gate.  She  found  herself 
in  a  sanded  court,  shaded  by  a  plane-tree.  On  the  left, 
on  a  level  with  the  street,  was  the  porter's  lodge,  with 
canaries  in  cages  at  the  windows.  On  this  side,  was  the 
gable  of  the  next  house,  covered  with  a  green  lattice-work. 
Leaning  against  it  was  the  glazed  frame  of  a  sculptor's 
studio,  through  the  glass  of  which  could  be  seen  plaster 
figures  covered  with  dust.  On  the  right,  fixed  to  the  low 
wall  of  the  court,  were  precious  fragments  of  friezes  and 
the  broken  shafts  of  columns.  In  front  were  the  six  mul- 
lioned  windows  of  the  moderate  sized  house,  half  hidden 
by  ivy  and  climbing  roses. 

Enamoured  of  French  fifteenth-century  architecture, 
Philippe  Dechartre  had  skilfully  reproduced  the  charac- 
teristics of  a  private  dwelling  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XII. 
Begun  in  the  middle  of  the  Second  Empire,  this  house  had 
never  been  finished.  The  builder  of  so  many  chateaux  had 
died  before  completing  his  own  shanty.  It  was  better  thus. 
It  had  been  designed  in  a  style  which  once  had  an  air 
of  distinction,  but  now  appeared  common  and  old-fashioned, 

185 


186  THE  RED  LILY 

The  gardens  that  had  once  surrounded  it  had  been  gradu- 
ally built  up.  And  to-day,  cramped  between  the  walls 
of  high  buildings,  Philippe  Dechartre's  little  mansion  cor- 
rected the  bad  taste  of  its  sham  antiquity  and  its  archaeo- 
logical romanticism  by  the  pathos  of  its  rough-hewn  stone 
crumbling  away  in  expectation  of  the  mason,  dead  for  per- 
haps twenty  years,  by  the  heaviness  of  its  three  incomplete 
dormer  windows,  by  the  simplicity  of  the  inexpensive  roof 
provided  by  the  architect's  widow,  and  by  all  the  charm 
of  the  unfinished  and  the  involuntary.  Thus  it  harmonised 
better  with  that  ugliness  of  the  neighbourhood  which  re- 
sulted from  the  rapid  increase  of  the  population. 

After  all,  the  house  had  a  certain  charm  with  its  tumble- 
down air  and  its  drapery  of  green.  Suddenly  and  instinct- 
ively Therese  discovered  other  harmonies.  In  that  pic- 
turesque neglect,  revealed  by  the  ivy-covered  walls,  the 
darkened  studio  windows,  and  even  by  the  bending  plane 
tree,  strewing  with  its  scaled  bark  the  grass  of  the  court, 
she  read  the  soul  of  the  master,  careless,  spendthrift,  bear- 
ing within  him  the  eternal  discontent  of  the  passionate.  For 
a  moment  her  joy  was  clouded  as  she  realised  the  indif- 
ference with  which  her  lover  treated  his  surroundings. 
Although  united  to  a  kind  of  grace  and  nobility,  it  be- 
trayed a  detachment  according  ill  with  her  own  nature  and 
the  vigilant  careful  spirit  of  the  Montessuy.  She  thought 
at  once  how,  without  disturbing  the  pensive  charm  of  this 
wild  place,  she  would  introduce  into  it  a  spirit  of  order:  she 
would  have  the  path  strewn  with  sand,  and  in  the  corner 
where  there  was  most  sun  would  plant  some  bright  col- 
oured flowers.  Sympathetically  she  gazed  at  a  statue 
brought  there  from  some  ruined  park.  It  was  a  Flora, 
covered  with  dark  green  moss  and  lying  on  the  ground, 
her  two  arms  by  her  side.  Therese  dreamed  of  raising  her 
and  making  her  the  centre-piece  for  the  fountain,  the  wa- 
ters of  which  were  now  trickling  sadly  into  the  bucket 
acting  in  lieu  of  a  basin. 

Dechartre  had  been  looking  for  her  for  an  hour.  Now 
he  was  glad,  but  still  anxious.  Trembling  with  agitation 
at  his  good  fortune,  he  came  down  the  steps  to  meet  her. 

In  the  refreshing  shade  of  the  vestibule,  from  which 


Till!,  ^ED  .LILY  187 

could  be  vaguely  descried  the  severe  beauty  of  bronzes 
and  marbles,  she  paused,  overcome  by  her  heart's  wild 
beating. 

He  pressed  her  to  him  and  gave  her  a  long  kiss.  Through 
her  emotion  she  heard  him  recalling  the  delights  of  the 
previous  day.  She  saw  the  lion  of  Mount  Atlas  on  the 
rug,  and  slowly  and  passionately  she  gave  Jacques  back 
his  kisses. 

Up  a  winding  wooden  staircase,  he  led  her  into  a  large 
room,  which  had  been  his  father's  study,  and  where  he 
himself  drew,  modelled,  and  read.  Reading  was  a  kind 
of  opium  to  him,  inspiring  him  with  dreams  over  the 
open  page. 

Over  the  cupboards  and  reaching  to  the  painted  beams 
of  the  ceiling  was  Gothic  tapestry,  delicately  tinted,  sug- 
gesting a  fairy  forest,  and  a  lady  wearing  a  high  fifteenth- 
century  head-dress,  with  a  unicorn  at  her  feet  on  the  flower- 
strewn  grass. 

He  led  her  to  a  divan  broad  and  low,  with  cushions  cov- 
ered with  sumptuous  Spanish  shawls  and  Byzantine  dal- 
matics; but  she  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair. 

"You  are  here!    Now  the  world  may  come  to  an  end." 

"I  used  to  think  of  the  end  of  the  world  and  not  to 
fear  it,"  she  replied.  "M.  Lagrange  out  of  politeness  had 
promised  me  it  should  come;  and  I  expected  it.  I  was 
so  dull  before  I  knew  you!" 

She  looked  round  at  the  tables  loaded  with  vases  and 
statuettes,  at  the  tapestry,  the  mass  of  glittering  weapons, 
the  enamels,  marbles,  paintings,  and  old  books. 

"You  have  some  beautiful  things." 

"Most  of  them  belonged  to  my  father,  who  lived  in 
the  golden  age  of  collectors.  In  1851  he  discovered  thesi 
unicorn  stories,  the  complete  series  of  which  is  at  Cluny, 
in  an  inn  at  Meung-sur-Yevre." 

But  curious  and  disappointed,  she  said: 

"I  don't  see  anything  by  you,  here;  not  a  statue,  a  low- 
relief,  or  one  of  those  wax  figures  so  admired  in  England, 
not  one  tiny  statuette,  or  even  a  plaque  or  a  medal." 

"How  can  you  think  I  could  bear  to  live  in  the  midst  *t 
my  own  works!  ...  I  know  my  figures  only  too  well.  ,  .  , 


i88  THE  RED  LILY 

They  bore  me.  A  thing  loses  its  charm  when  you  know 
its  secret." 

She  looked  at  him,  pretending  to  be  vexed: 

"You  never  told  me  that  a  thing  loses  its  charm  when 
you  know  its  secret." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms: 

"Ah!  all  that  lives  is  mysterious.  And  you,  my  beloved, 
are  for  me  an  unsolved  enigma,  the  meaning  of  which  is 
the  delight  of  life  and  the  horror  of  death.  Don't  fear  to 
be  mine.  I  shall  desire  you  always;  I  shall  never  know 
you.  Does  one  ever  possess  what  one  loves?  Are  kisses 
and  caresses  anything  but  the  strivings  of  a  delicious  de- 
spair? When  I  hold  you  in  my  arms,  I  still  long  for  you; 
and  I  never  have  you,  since  I  would  have  you  always,  since 
what  I  want  in  you  is  the  impossible  and  the  infinite. 
What  you  are  the  Gods  only  know.  Do  you  think  that 
because  I  have  modelled  a  few  indifferent  figures  I  am  a 
sculptor?  I  am  rather  a  kind  of  a  poet  and  philosopher 
seeking  in  nature  subjects  which  shall  agitate  and  torment 
me.  Feeling  for  form  does  not  satisfy  me.  My  fellow 
sculptors  laugh  at  me  because  I  cannot  be  as  simple  as 
they.  They  are  right.  And  that  brute  Choulette  is  right 
too  when  he  would  have  us  live  without  thought  or  desire. 
Our  friend,  the  cobbler  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  who  knows 
nought  of  all  that  would  render  him  unjust  or  unfortunate, 
is  a  master  in  the  art  of  life.  I  ought  to  love  you  in  all 
simplicity  without  those  metaphysics  of  passion  which  ren- 
der me  absurd  and  unkind.  The  only  good  thing  is  to 
ignore  and  forget.  Come,  come,  in  the  torture  of  our 
separation  I  have  had  cruel  thoughts  of  you:  come,  my 
beloved.  You  yourself  must  drown  these  thoughts  of 
you.  It  is  through  you  only  that  I  can  forget  you  and 
myself." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and,  raising  her  veil,  kissed  her 
on  the  lips. 

She  pulled  the  black  tulle  over  her  face,  rather  fright- 
ened in  this  strange  big  room  and  feeling  embarrassed  by 
the  presence  of  unfamiliar  objects. 

"Here!"  she  said;  "surely  you  are  not  thinking." 

He  said  that  they  were  alone. 


RED  LILY  189 

"Alone?  But  what  about  the  man  with  the  terrible 
moustache  who  opened  the  door  to  me?" 

He  smiled: 

"That  is  Fusellier,  my  father's  old  servant.  His  wife 
and  he  compose  my  household.  Don't  be  alarmed.  They 
stay  quietly  in  their  lodge,  sullen  but  faithful.  You  will 
see  Madame  Fusellier.  She  is  familiar,  I  warn  you." 

"Why,  my  love,  should  a  butler  and  porter  like  M.  Fusel- 
lier wear  a  Tartar's  moustache?" 

"Nature  gave  it  him,  darling,  and  I  would  not  deprive 
him  of  it.  I  am  pleased  that  he  should  look  like  a  retired 
sergeant-major  turned  nurseryman,  for  at  times  he  in- 
spires me  with  the  illusion  that  he  is  my  country 
neighbour." 

Sitting  on  one  corner  of  the  divan,  he  drew  her  on  to 
his  knee  and  gave  her  kisses  which  she  returned. 

Then  she  rose  quickly,  saying: 

"Show  me  the  other  rooms.  I  am  curious.  I  want  to 
see  everything." 

He  took  her  to  the  second  floor.  Water  colours  by 
Philippe  Dechartre  hung  upon  the  walls  of  the  corridor. 
Me  opened  a  door  and  showed  her  into  a  room  with  ebony 
furniture. 

It  was  his  mother's  room.  He  kept  it  just  as  it  had 
been  in  her  lifetime.  It  looked  as  if  it  had  been  used  but 
yesterday ;  and  it  is  only  yesterday's  past  that  really  touches 
and  saddens  us.  Although  it  was  nine  years  since  it  had 
been  used,  the  room  seemed  not  yet  to  have  resigned  itself 
to  solitude.  The  wardrobe  mirror  was  watching  for  the 
old  lady's  glance,  and  on  the  onyx  clock  a  pensive  Sappho 
looked  disappointed  as  she  listened  for  the  sound  of  the 
swinging  pendulum. 

There  were  two  portraits  on  the  walls.  One,  by  Ricard, 
was  of  Philippe  Dechartre,  very  pale,  with  tumbled  hair, 
his  eyes  lost  in  romantic  dreams,  his  mouth  full  of  elo- 
quence and  good  nature.  The  other,  painted  by  a  surer 
hand,  was  of  a  lady  of  uncertain  age,  thin,  with  an  eager 
air  and  almost  beautiful. 

"My  poor  mother's  room  is  like  me,"  said  Jacques:  "it 
remembers." 


199  THE  RED  LILY 

"You  are  like  your  mother,"  said  Therese.  "You  have 
her  eyes.  Paul  Vence  told  me  she  adored  you." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  smiling,  "mother  was  delightful:  in- 
telligent, with  excellent  taste,  but  wonderfully  absurd.  In 
her  maternal  affection  almost  amounted  to  madness;  she 
never  left  me  a  moment's  peace;  she  tormented  herself 
and  me." 

Therese  was  looking  at  a  bronze  by  Carpeaux,  on  a 
cabinet. 

Said  Dechartre:  "You  recognise  the  Prince  Imperial,  by 
lus  ears  like  wings  in  the  statues  of  Zephyrus,  enlivening 
a  somewhat  cold  countenance.  This  bronze  was  a  gift 
from  Napoleon  III.  My  parents  used  to  visit  Compiegne. 
Whilst  the  court  was  at  Fontainebleau,  my  father  took  a 
plan  of  the  chateau  and  drew  the  gallery.  In  the  morning 
the  Emperor  would  come  in  his  frock-coat,  smoking  a  meer- 
schaum pipe,  and  pose  near  him,  like  a  penguin  on  a  rock. 
At  that  time  I  was  a  day  pupil  at  the  Lycee  Bonaparte.  I 
used  to  listen  to  these  stories  at  meals;  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  them.  The  Emperor  would  stay  there,  quite 
calm  and  good-tempered,  occasionally  breaking  the  long 
silence  by  a  few  words,  stifled  beneath  his  heavy  moustache. 
Then  he  would  grow  slightly  animated  and  explain  his 
ideas  on  machinery.  He  was  an  inventor  and  an  engineer. 
He  would  take  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  and,  to  my  fa- 
ther's despair,  draw  figures  on  his  plans.  Two  or  three 
sketches  a  week  were  regularly  spoiled  in  this  manner.  .  .  . 
He  was  very  fond  of  my  father  and  promised  him  employ- 
ment and  honours  that  never  came.  The  Emperor  was 
kind,  but  he  had  no  influence,  as  mother  used  to  say.  I 
was  a  lad  at  that  time.  And  ever  since  those  days  I  have 
felt  a  vague  sympathy  for  that  man  lacking  genius,  but 
with  a  heart  kind  and  good,  who  amidst  all  life's  vicissi- 
tudes conducted  himself  with  a  simple  courage  and  a  good- 
tempered  fatalism.  .  .  . 

"And  then,  I  sympathise  with  him  also,  because  he  was 
opposed  and  insulted  by  those  who  wanted  to  take  his 
place  and  who  hadn't  even  his  love  for  the  people.  Since 
then  we  have  seen  them  in  power.  Ye  Gods!  What  vil- 
lains! Senator  Loyer,  for  example,  who  in  tfr»  smoking- 


THE  RED  LILY  191 

room,  at  your  house,  was  stuffing  cigars  into  his  pocket, 
and  inviting  me  to  do  so  too.  'To  smoke  on  the  way 
home,'  he  said.  This  Loyer  is  a  wicked  man,  one  who  is 
hard  on  the  weak,  the  humble,  and  the  unfortunate.  And 
Garain,  doesn't  he  disgust  you?  You  remember  my  first 
dinner  at  your  house,  when  we  talked  of  Napoleon.  Your 
hair  was  beautifully  coiled  in  the  nape  of  your  neck  in  a 
'mot  pierced  by  a  diamond  arrow.  Paul  Vence  talked 
subtly.  Garain  did  not  understand.  You  asked  what  I 
thought." 

"It  was  because  I  wanted  you  to  shine.  I  was  proud 
of  you  already." 

"Oh!  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  utter  a  single 
sentence  in  the  presence  of  such  serious  people.  Never- 
theless I  should  have  liked  to  say  that  the  third  Napoleon 
appealed  to  me  more  than  the  first,  and  that  I  thought 
him  more  human.  But  perhaps  such  a  sentiment  would 
have  been  badly  received.  Besides,  I  am  not  so  utterly 
devoid  of  talent  as  to  trouble  about  politics." 

He  was  walking  round  the  room  and  looking  at  the  fur- 
niture with  a  tender  affection.  He  opened  a  drawer  in 
the  bureau: 

"See,  here  are  my  mother's  spectacles.  How  often  she 
looked  for  them!  Now  I  am  going  to  show  you  my  room. 
If  it  is  not  in  order,  you  must  forgive  Madame  Fusellier, 
who  has  orders  to  respect  my  untidiness." 

The  window  curtains  were  drawn  and  he  let  them  re- 
main so.  An  hour  later,  she  herself  drew  aside  the  folds 
of  red  satin.  The  rays  of  light  dazzled  her  eyes  and  scat- 
tered themselves  in  her  tumbled  hair.  She  looked  for  a 
glass  and  found  only  a  tarnished  Venetian  mirror  in  an 
ebony  frame.  Standing  on  tip-toe  so  as  to  see  herself,  she 
asked: 

"Is  that  dim  shadowy  spectre  really  I?  Those  who 
have  been  reflected  in  this  glass  can  hardly  have  congratu- 
lated you  on  it." 

As  she  was  taking  her  pins  from  the  table,  she  saw  a 
little  bronze  she  had  not  noticed  before.  It  was  a  piece 
of  old  Italian  work  in  the  Flemish  style:  a  heavy,  nude, 
short-legged  figure  of  a  woman,  as  if  in  flight,  with  arms 


192  THE  RED  LILY 

extended.     She  thought  it  a  trifle  grotesque  and  vulgar 

"What  is  she  doing?"  she  asked. 

"She  is  doing  what  Madame  Mondanite  is  doing  under 
the  porch  of  the  Bale  Cathedral." 

But  Therese,  although  she  had  been  to  Bale,  did  not 
know  Madame  Mondanite.  She  looked  at  the  little  bronze 
.again,  but  failed  to  understand,  and  asked: 

"Can  it  be  so  improper?  I  should  have  thought  any- 
thing done  under  a  church  porch  might  be  talked  of  here." 

Then  suddenly  a  misgiving  occurred  to  her: 

"Good  gracious!  What  would  M.  and  Madame  Fusellier 
Tthink  of  me?" 

Then  discovering  on  the  wall  a  medallion  by  Dechartre, 
representing  the  interesting  but  vicious  profile  of  a  little 
street  girl,  she  asked: 

"What  is  that?" 

"That  is  Clara,  a  little  newspaper-seller  of  the  Rue 
Demours.  She  used  to  bring  me  the  Figaro  every  morn- 
ing. She  had  dimples  on  her  cheeks  that  were  nests  for 
kisses.  One  day  I  said  to  her:  'I  will  draw  your  portrait.' 
She  came  one  summer  morning  wearing  earrings  and  rings 
bought  at  the  Neuilly  fair.  Then  I  never  saw  her  again. 
I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  her.  She  was  too  much 
a  creature  of  instinct  ever  to  become  a  regular  prostitute. 
Shall  I  take  it  away?" 

"No,  it  looks  very  well  in  that  corner.  I  am  not  jealous 
of  Clara." 

It  was  time  for  her  to  go  home;  but  she  couldn't  make 
up  her  mind  to  leave  him.  She  put  her  arms  round  her 
lover's  neck. 

"Oh!  I  love  you.  And  to-day  you  have  been  gay  and 
light-hearted.  Gaiety  becomes  you  well.  Yours  is  so 
sparkling  and  graceful.  I  should  like  you  to  be  always 
gay.  I  want  joy  almost  as  much  as  love,  and  who  will 
give  it  me  if  not  you?" 


XXVII 

SINCE  her  return  to  Paris,  now  six  weeks  ago,  Therese 
had  been  living  as  if  in  a  slumber;  and  happy  dreams 
had  taken  the  place  of  conscious  thought.  Every  day  she 
met  Jacques  in  the  little  house  overshadowed  by  the  plane- 
tree;  and  when  at  last  she  tore  herself  away,  adorable 
memories  lingered  in  her  heart.  Delicious  languor  and 
renewed  desire  linked  the  hours  of  love  together.  They  both 
had  the  same  tastes  and  were  possessed  by  the  same  fancies. 
If  one  had  a  whim  the  other  shared  it.  Together  they 
delighted  to  explore  that  border  region  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town.  There  the  streets  and  purple  painted  taverns 
are  shaded  by  acacias.  Thistles  grow  on  the  stony  roads 
along  the  bottom  of  the  walls,  while  over  fields  and  woods 
extends  a  pale  sky  streaked  with  smoke  from  the  factory 
chimneys.  She  was  glad  to  feel  him  near  her  in  a  country 
where  she  ceased  to  recognise  herself  and  felt  lost  with 
him. 

That  day,  their  whim  had  been  to  take  the  boat  she 
had  so  often  seen  passing  beneath  her  windows.  She  was 
not  afraid  of  being  recognised.  There  was  no  great  dan- 
ger; and  since  she  had  been  in  love,  she  had  forgotten 
to  be  prudent.  Leaving  behind  the  dusty  barrenness  of 
the  suburbs,  they  came  upon  smiling  banks;  they  passed 
islands  with  clumps  of  trees  overshadowing  rustic  cafes 
and  innumerable  boats  moored  beneath  the  willows.  They 
landed  at  Lower  Meudon.  She  said  she  was  hot  and  thirsty. 
He  took  her  by  a  side  door  into  a  tavern,  where  there 
were  furnished  rooms  to  let.  It  was  a  building  surrounded 
by  wooden  galleries.  In  its  desertion  it  appeared  larger 
than  usual  and  seemed  to  slumber  in  rustic  peace,  waiting 
till  Sunday  should  fill  it  with  women's  laughter,  oarsmen's 
cries,  the  smell  of  cooking  and  stench  of  fried  fish. 

They  went  up  the  ladder-like  creaking  stairs  into  a  room 
on  the  first  floor,  where  a  waitress  brought  them  wine  and 
biscuits.  Woollen  curtains  covered  a  mahogany  bedstead, 

193 


194  THE  RED  LILY 

Over  the  mantelpiece,  fixed  across  one  corner,  was  inclined 
an  oval  mirror  in  a  flowered  frame.  Through  the  open 
window  could  be  seen  the  Seine,  with  its  green  banks, 
and  hills  in  the  distance,  looking  misty  in  the  heat  and 
the  sun  already  inclining  towards  the  tops  of  the  poplar 
trees.  Swarms  of  gnats  were  dancing  by  the  river.  The 
quivering  peace  of  a  summer  evening  alike  pervaded  sky, 
earth,  and  water. 

Long  did  Therese  watch  the  flowing  river.  The 
steamer  passed,  pounding  its  screw  through  the  water;  and 
the  swell  lapping  on  the  shore  seemed  to  make  the  house 
on  the  bank  roll  like  the  boat. 

"I  love  the  water,"  said  Therese,  turning  to  her  lover. 
"How  happy  I  am!" 

Their  lips  met. 

Lost  in  the  enchanted  abyss  of  love,  the  passing  of  time 
was  unmarked  for  them  save  every  ten  minutes,  after  the 
passing  of  the  boat,  by  the  ripple  of  the  waves  breaking 
beneath  the  open  window. 

Her  clothes  carelessly  thrown  on  one  side  strewed  the 
floor.  She  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow  and  saw  her- 
self in  the  glass.  To  Dechartre's  loving  praise  she  replied: 

"It  is  true  I  am  made  for  love." 

With  sensitive  immodesty  she  contemplated  her  own 
image  in  the  silver  light  of  the  mirror. 

"I  love  myself  because  you  love  me." 

Certainly  he  loved  her;  and  he  could  not  explain  to 
himself  why  his  love  was  a  fervent  pity,  a  kind  of  sacred 
passion.  It  was  not  on  account  of  her  beauty,  so  rare 
and  so  infinitely  precious.  Her  figure  had  the  true  lines, 
but  line  follows  motion  and  is  always  fleeting;  it  is  lost 
and  is  found  again,  the  joy  and  the  despair  of  artists.  A 
beautiful  line  is  the  lightning  which  burns  the  eye  while 
rejoicing  it.  One  admires  but  one  is  also  overwhelmed. 
The  impulse  of  love  and  desire  is  a  sweet  and  terrible 
force,  stronger  than  beauty.  There  is  one  woman  in  a 
thousand,  whom  when  you  have  once  possessed  you  can 
never  leave;  you  desire  her  always  and  for  ever.  The 
flower  of  her  beauty  is  the  cause  of  this  incurable  malady 
of  love.  But  there  is  another  and  inexplicable  cause;  it 


THE  RED  LILY  195 

is  the  soul  of  her  body.  She  was  that  woman,  who  can  be 
neither  abandoned  nor  deceivea. 

"Ah!  you  cannot  leave  me,"  she  cried  joyfully. 

She  asked  him  why  since  he  thought  her  beautiful  he 
did  not  model  her  bust. 

"Why?  Because  I  am  but  a  second-rate  sculptor.  But 
I  know  it  and  that  is  not  to  be  second-rate.  However,  if 
you  insist  on  regarding  me  as  a  great  artist  I  will  give  you 
other  reasons.  To  create  a  living  figure  you  must  treat 
your  model  as  mere  matter  to  be  pounded  and  moulded 
until  it  distils  the  very  essence  of  its  beauty.  But  in  you 
everything  is  dear  to  me,  your  form,  your  flesh,  your  whole 
self.  If  I  were  to  do  your  bust  I  should  be  servilely  at- 
tentive to  trifles,  which  are  everything  for  me,  because 
they  are  something  of  you.  I  could  not  help  it,  and  it  would 
prevent  my  work  from  arriving  at  any  unity." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  surprised. 

He  resumed: 

"I  do  not  say  that  it  would  be  so  if  I  were  to  work 
from  memory.  I  have  attempted  a  little  pencil  sketch,  that 
I  always  carry  with  me." 

As  she  insisted  on  seeing  it,  he  showed  it  to  her.  It  was 
on  the  leaf  of  an  album,  a  very  bold  simple  sketch.  She 
did  not  recognise  it,  thought  it  hard,  with  an  expression 
that  seemed  foreign  to  her. 

"Ah!  is  that  how  you  see  me,  is  that  the  impression 
I  make  on  you?" 

He  closed  the  album. 

"No,  it  is  merely  a  reminder,  a  note,  that's  all.  But 
I  think  the  note  is  correct.  Probably  you  don't  see  your- 
self quite  as  I  see  you.  Every  human  being  has  a  different 
personality  for  every  one  who  looks  at  him." 

With  a  kind  of  forced  gaiety,  he  added: 

"From  that  point  of  view  one  may  say  that  the  same 
woman  has  never  been  the  mistress  of  two  men.  That  is 
Paul  Vence's  idea." 

"I  think  it  true,"  said  Therese. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked. 

It  was  seven  o'clock. 

She  said  they  must  go.     Every  evening  she  was  later 


196  THE  RED  LILY 

going  home.  Her  husband  had  noticed  it.  He  had  said: 
"We  are  always  the  last  to  arrive  at  a  dinner-party;  there 
is  a  fatality  about  it."  But  he  himself  was  frequently  late, 
being  detained  at  the  Palais-Bourbon.  The  budget  was 
under  discussion;  and  he  was  absorbed  by  the  duties  of 
the  subcommittee  on  which  he  had  been  appointed  reporter. 
And  so  reasons  of  state  covered  Therese's  unpunctuality. 

With  a  smile  she  recalled  the  evening  when  she  had 
reached  Madame  Garain's  at  half-past  eight.  She  was 
afraid  her  hostess  would  be  annoyed.  But  it  was  the 
day  of  a  famous  question  in  the  Chamber;  and  her  hus- 
band and  Garain  did  not  arrive  till  nine  o'clock,  when 
they  both  dined  without  waiting  to  dress.  They  had  saved 
the  ministry. 

Suddenly  she  became  thoughtful. 

"I  shall  have  no  excuse,  my  love,  for  remaining  in  Paris 
when  the  Chamber  is  adjourned.  Already  Father  can't 
understand  the  devotion  that  keeps  me  here.  In  a  week 
I  must  join  him  at  Dinard.  What  shall  I  do  without 
you?" 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him  with  a  sadness 
that  was  infinitely  tender.  But  he  said  gloomily: 

"It  is  I,  Therese,  I  who  must  wonder  anxiously  what 
will  become  of  me  without  you.  When  you  leave  me  I 
am  besieged  by  sorrowful  imaginings;  black  thoughts  come 
and  sit  in  a  circle  around  me." 

She  asked  what  those  thoughts  were. 

He  replied: 

"My  beloved,  I  have  told  you  already:  you  yourself 
must  make  me  forget  you.  When  you  are  gone,  the  memory 
of  you  will  torture  me.  I  must  pay  for  the  happiness  you 
give  me." 


XXVIII 

IN  the  bay,  terminating  in  two  promontories  like  horns 
of  gold,  with  here  and  there  a  rose-coloured  reef,  the 
blue  sea  was  languidly  rolling  its  silver  fringe  on  to  the 
fine  sand  of  the  beach.  The  day  was  so  bright  that  the 
sunlight  on  Chateaubriand's  tomb  might  make  one  imagine 
oneself  in  Greece.  In  a  room  full  of  flowers,  with  a  balcony 
looking  on  the  myrtles  and  tamarisks  of  the  garden  and 
the  ocean  beyond,  with  its  islands  and  promontories,  sat 
Therese.  She  was  reading  the  letters  she  had  fetched  that 
morning  from  the  St.  Malo  post  office.  On  the  boat 
crowded  with  passengers  she  had  not  liked  to  open  them. 
Immediately  after  lunch,  she  had  shut  herself  in  her  room. 
There,  with  her  letters  spread  out  on  her  lap,  she  was 
eagerly  reading,  and  greedily  tasting  her  furtive  joy.  At 
two  o'clock  she  had  to  go  for  a  coach-drive  with  her  fa- 
ther, her  husband,  Princess  Seniavine,  Madame  Berthier 
d'Eyzelles,  the  deputy's  wife,  and  Madame  Raymond,  the 
wife  of  an  Academician.  That  day  she  had  two  letters. 
The  first  she  read  was  full  of  gladness  and  the  delicate 
savour  of  love.  Jacques  had  never  appeared  gayer,  simpler, 
happier,  more  charming. 

Since  he  had  loved  her,  he  said,  his  feet  had  moved  so 
lightly  and  so  swiftly  that  they  hardly  touched  the  ground. 
He  had  only  one  fear,  and  that  was  that  he  was  dreaming 
and  should  awake  to  find  he  did  not  know  her.  Yes, 
he  must  be  dreaming.  But  what  a  dream!  the  little  house 
in  the  Via  Alfieri,  the  inn  at  Meudon!  Their  kisses,  and 
those  divine  shoulders,  that  supple  form,  fresh  and  fragrant 
as  a  stream  flowing  among  flowers.  If  he  were  not  dream- 
ing, then  he  must  be  intoxicated.  Fortunately  his  reason 
had  left  him;  and  he  saw  her  in  her  absence:  "Yes,  I  see 
you  near  me.  I  see  your  heavy  lashes  shading  those  eyes 
more  delightful  than  all  the  blue  in  flowers  and  sky,  your 
lips  like  a  delicious  fruit,  your  cheeks  with  two  adorable 
dimples  when  you  laugh.  I  see  you  beautiful  and  de- 

297 


198  THE  RED  LILY 

sirable,  but  fleeting,  vanishing.  And  when  I  open  my  arms 
you  have  gone.  I  see  you  in  the  distance  far  away,  on 
the  long  yellow  sand,  no  bigger  than  a  spray  of  heather 
in  flower,  beneath  your  sunshade,  in  your  pink  gown.  You 
appear  as  tiny  as  when  I  saw  you  from  the  top  of  the 
Campanile,  on  the  Piazza,  del  Duomo  at  Florence.  And 
I  say  to  myself  as  I  said  that  day:  'One  blade  of  grass 
would  hide  her  from  me  completely,  and  yet  she  is  to  me 
the  infinite  of  joy  and  sorrow.' " 

All  he  complained  of  was  the  torture  of  her  absence.  But 
with  his  complaints  mingled  the  glad  happiness  of  love. 
He  threatened  to  come  and  surprise  her  at  Dinard.  "Don't 
be  afraid.  I  shall  not  be  recognised.  I  shall  be  disguised 
as  a  hawker  of  plaster  casts;  and  I  shall  not  belie 
myself.  Dressed  in  a  grey  blouse  and  coarse  cotton 
trousers,  my  face  and  beard  covered  with  white  dust,  I 
shall  ring  at  the  Villa  Montessuy.  You,  Therese,  will  rec- 
ognise me  by  the  statuettes  on  the  plank  I  bear  on  my  head. 
They  will  all  be  Cupids.  There  will  be  Faithful  Cupid, 
Jealous  Cupid,  Tender  Cupid,  Ardent  Cupid;  and  the 
ardent  Cupids  will  be  the  most  numerous.  And  I  shall  cry 
in  the  rude  sonorous  tongue  of  the  Pisan  or  Florentine 
artisan:  Tutti  gli  Amori  per  la  signora  Teresina." 

The  last  page  of  this  letter  was  tender  and  thoughtful. 
There  escaped  from  it  reverent  effusions,  reminding  The- 
rese of  the  prayer  books  she  used  to  read  when  a  child. 
"I  love  you,  and  I  love  everything  in  you:  the  earth  on 
which  you  walk  so  lightly  and  which  you  render  beauti- 
ful, the  light  which  enables  me  to  see  you,  and  the  air 
you  breathe.  I  love  the  bending  plane-tree  in  my  court- 
yard because  you  have  seen  it.  To-night  I  walked  along 
the  avenue  where  I  met  you  one  winter  evening.  I  gath- 
ered a  sprig  of  box  that  you  had  looked  at.  I  see  you 
and  you  only  in  this  city  which  does  not  contain  you." 

When  he  had  finished  his  letter,  he  wrote,  he  would  go 
out  to  lunch.  The  saucepan  had  upset  in  the  absence  of 
Madame  Fusellier,  who  on  the  previous  day  had  gone  to 
her  native  town,  Nevers.  He  would  go  to  a  favourite  tav- 
ern in  the  Rue  Royale.  And  there,  lost  in  the  crowd,  he 
would  be  alone  with  her. 


THE  RED  LILY  199 

Soothed  by  the  charm  of  invisible  caresses,  Therese  closed 
her  eyes  and  leant  back  in  her  arm-chair.  Hearing  the 
sound  of  the  coach  stopping  at  the  door,  she  opened  the 
second  letter.  The  altered  writing,  the  uneven  lines,  the 
disordered  appearance  of  the  pages  made  her  anxious. 

The  mysterious  beginning  betrayed  a  sudden  anguish 
of  mind  and  dark  suspicion.  "Therese,  Therese,  why  were 
you  ever  mine  if  you  could  not  give  your  whole  self?  Your 
deception  has  done  me  no  good,  since  now  I  know  what  I 
was  determined  not  to  know." 

She  paused  in  her  reading  and  her  eyes  grew  dim.  "We 
were  so  happy  just  now,"  she  thought.  "What  has  hap- 
pened? And  I  was  rejoicing  in  his  gladness  when  it  had 
ceased  to  exist!  It  would  be  better  not  to  write,  since 
letters  only  express  feelings  that  have  passed  away,  ideas 
that  are  no  more." 

She  read  on.  Seeing  that  he  was  devoured  by  jealousy, 
she  despaired. 

"If  I  have  not  proved  to  him  that  I  love  him  with  all 
my  strength,  with  all  my  soul,  how  can  I  ever  convince 
him?" 

And  she  hastened  on  to  see  what  had  caused  this  sud- 
den madness.  Jacques  told  her: 

As  he  was  lunching  at  a  tavern  in  the  Rue  Royale,  he 
met  an  old  friend,  who  was  passing  through  Paris  on  his 
way  from  an  inland  watering-place  to  the  seaside.  They 
began  to  talk;  and  it  chanced  that  this  man,  who  moved 
much  in  society,  spoke  of  Countess  Martin,  whom  he  knew. 
Jacques  interrupted  his  narrative  to  exclaim: 

"Therese,  Therese,  what  use  was  it  for  you  to  lie  to 
me  since  one  day  I  must  know  that  of  which  I  alone  was 
ignorant?  But  the  mistake  was  more  mine  than  yours. 
Your  letter  posted  in  the  box  at  Or  San  Michele,  your 
meeting  at  the  Florence  station  should  have  told  me,  if 
only  I  had  not  so  obstinately  clung  to  my  illusions,  in 
spite  of  evidence.  I  refused  to  know  you  were  another's 
when  you  were  giving  yourself  to  me  with  that  bold  grace, 
that  charming  voluptuousness  which  will  kill  me.  I  will- 
ingly remained  in  ignorance.  I  ceased  to  ask  you  for  an 
explanation  out  of  fear  lest  you  should  find  yourself  un- 


200  THE  RED  LILY 

able  to  lie.  I  was  so  prudent  that  it  remained  for  a  fool 
to  open  my  eyes  suddenly  and  brutally  and  bring  it  home 
to  me  at  a  restaurant  table.  Oh!  now  that  I  know,  now 
that  I  can  no  longer  doubt,  it  seems  to  me  that  doubting 
was  delicious.  He  uttered  the  name,  that  name  I  had 
heard  already  at  Fiesole,  on  the  lips  of  Miss  Bell,  and  he 
added:  'The  story  is  well  known.' 

"So  you  loved  him,  you  still  love  him.  And  when,  alone 
in  my  room,  I  am  biting  the  pillow  on  which  your  head 
reclined,  perhaps  he  is  with  you.  Doubtless  he  is.  He 
always  goes  to  the  Dinard  races;  so  I  have  been  told. 
I  see  him.  I  see  everything.  If  you  knew  the  sights  that 
haunt  me,  you  would  say:  'He  is  mad,'  and  you  would 
pity  me.  Oh!  how  I  wish  I  could  forget  you  and  every- 
thing. But  I  cannot.  You  know  that  you  alone  can  make 
me  forget  you.  I  am  always  seeing  you  with  him.  It  is 
torture.  That  night  on  the  Arno's  bank,  I  thought  myself 
unhappy.  But  then  I  did  not  even  know  what  suffering 
meant.  To-day  I  know." 

As  she  finished  the  letter,  Therese  thought:  "A  chance 
word  has  thrown  him  into  this  state  of  agitation.  One 
word  sufficed  to  make  him  mad  with  despair."  She  won- 
dered who  the  wretch  was  who  had  uttered  it.  She  sus- 
pected two  or  three  young  men  whom  Le  Menil  had  intro- 
duced to  her,  warning  her  to  beware  of  them.  And  in  a 
passion  of  wrath,  of  the  cold  severe  kind,  inherited  from 
her  father,  she  said  to  herself:  "I  shall  know."  Meanwhile 
what  must  she  do?  Her  lover  was  ill,  despairing,  wild  with 
grief;  and  yet  she  could  not  hasten  to  his  side,  to  embrace 
him  and  throw  herself  into  his  arms  with  so  complete  an 
abandonment  of  soul  and  body  as  would  convince  him  she 
was  his  entirely  and  compel  him  to  believe  in  her.  She 
could  write.  But  how  much  better  it  would  have  been 
to  go,  and  silently  nestle  near  his  heart,  and  then  after- 
wards say:  "Now  dare  to  think  I  am  not  yours  alone." 
But  she  could  only  write.  She  had  hardly  begun  her  letter, 
when  she  heard  voices  and  laughter  in  the  garden.  Al- 
ready Princess  Seniavine  was  climbing  up  the  ladder  on  to 
the  coach. 

Therfee  went  down  and  appeared  on  the  steps  tranquil 


THE  RED  LILY  201 

and  smiling;  her  broad  straw  hat  trimmed  with  poppies 
cast  a  becoming  shadow  over  her  face  and  her  bright  grey 
eyes. 

"Good  heavens!  how  pretty  she  is!"  cried  Princess  Senia- 
vine.  "And  what  a  pity  we  see  her  so  seldom!  In  the 
morning  she  crosses  the  ferry  and  goes  into  the  narrow 
streets  of  Saint-Malo;  in  the  afternoon  she  shuts  herself 
in  her  room.  She  avoids  us." 

The  coach  wound  round  the  wide  circle  of  the  beach, 
past  villas  and  terraced  gardens  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 
And  on  the  left  were  to  be  seen,  as  if  emerging  from  the 
blue  sea,  the  steeple  and  ramparts  of  Saint-Malo.  Then 
the  coach  passed  into  a  road  bordered  with  gay  hedge- 
rows, along  which  were  walking  women  from  Dinard,  with 
figures  upright  and  broad  winged  cambric  caps. 

"It  is  unfortunate,"  said  Madame  Raymond,  who  was 
on  the  box  by  Montessuy,  "that  the  old  costumes  are  dying 
out.  Railways  are  responsible  for  it." 

"True,"  said  Montessuy,  "if  it  were  not  for  railways,  the 
peasants  would  still  be  wearing  their  old  picturesque  cos- 
tumes; but  we  should  not  see  them." 

"What  does  that  matter?"  replied  Madame  Raymond. 
"We  should  imagine  them." 

"But,"  asked  Princess  Seniavine,  "do  you  ever  see  any- 
thing interesting?  I  never  do." 

Madame  Raymond,  who  had  acquired  a  smattering  of 
philosophy  from  her  husband's  books,  maintained  that 
things  were  nothing  and  ideas  everything. 

Without  looking  at  Madame  Berthier  d'Eyzelles  sitting 
on  her  right  on  the  back  seat,  Countess  Martin  murmured: 

"Oh!  yes,  people  only  regard  their  own  ideas;  they  refuse 
to  be  guided  by  anything  else.  Blindly  and  deafly  they 
go  on.  Nothing  can  stop  them." 

"But,  my  dear,"  said  Count  Martin,  who  was  sitting  in 
front  of  her,  by  the  Princess,  "without  such  guiding  ideas, 
one  would  simply  drift.  .  .  .  By-the-by,  Montessuy,  have 
you  read  Loyer's  speech  at  the  unveiling  of  Cadet-Gassi- 
court's  statue?  The  opening  is  remarkable.  Loyer  is  not 
lacking  in  sound  political  common  sense." 

Having  crossed  the  willow  bordered  meadows,  the  coach 


202  THE  RED  LILY 

climbed  the  hill,  and  came  on  to  a  vast  wooded  plateau. 
For  some  time  it  followed  a  park  wall.  Away  in  front 
the  road  disappeared  out  of  sight  in  the  damp  mist. 

"Is  this  Le  Guerric?"  asked  Princess  Seniavine. 

Suddenly,  between  two  stone  pillars  surmounted  by  lions, 
there  came  before  them  a  closed  gate  crowned  by  four 
ornaments  in  wrought  iron.  Through  the  bars,  at  the  end 
of  a  long  avenue  of  limes,  could  be  seen  the  grey  walls 
of  the  chateau. 

"Yes,"  said  Montessuy,  "it  is  Le  Guerric." 

And,  turning  to  Therese,  he  said: 

"You  know  the  Marquis  of  Re.  ...  At  sixty-five  he 
had  all  the  vigour  of  youth.  He  set  the  fashion,  was  the 
arbiter  of  good  taste,  and  always  popular.  Young  men  used 
to  copy  his  frock-coat,  his  eye-glass,  his  gestures,  his  capti- 
vating insolence  and  his  entertaining  fancies.  Suddenly  he 
withdrew  from  society,  shut  up  his  house,  sold  his  horses, 
and  vanished.  You  remember,  Therese,  his  sudden  disap- 
pearance. It  was  soon  after  you  were  married.  He  used 
often  to  call  and  see  you.  One  day  we  heard  that  he  had 
left  Paris.  In  the  midst  of  winter  he  had  come  down 
here  to  Le  Guerric.  We  all  wondered  what  had  caused 
this  sudden  retreat.  We  thought  he  must  have  suffered 
some  annoyance.  Perhaps  he  had  fled  in  the  humiliation 
of  his  first  failure,  afraid  lest  he  should  be  seen  to  grow 
old.  Old  age  was  what  he  most  dreaded.  The  truth  is 
that  for  six  years  he  has  been  living  in  retirement.  Not 
once  has  he  left  his  chateau  and  his  park.  At  Le  Guerric 
he  entertains  two  or  three  old  men,  who  were  the  com- 
panions of  his  youth.  That  gate  opens  for  them  only. 
He  has  never  been  seen  since  his  disappearance  from  Paris; 
he  will  never  be  seen  again.  He  is  now  as  persistent  in 
his  retirement  as  he  was  formerly  in  his  sociability.  He 
could  not  bear  his  decline  to  be  observed.  He  is  dead 
though  alive.  It  seems  to  me  not  in  the  least  despicable." 

Theiese  remembered  the  charming  old  man  who  had 
wished  to  possess  her  as  the  glorious  conclusion  of  his  life 
of  gallantry;  and  she  turned  round  to  look  at  Le  Guerric, 
at  the  greyish  tops  of  its  oak-trees,  and  its  four  sentry-box 
turrets. 


THE  RED  LILY  2ov 

On  the  way  home,  she  said  she  had  a  headache,  and 
could  not  come  down  to  dinner.  She  shut  herself  in  her 
room  and  took  the  sad  letter  out  of  her  jewel-case.  She 
re-read  the  last  page: 

"At  the  thought  that  you  are  another's  my  heart  is  rent 
and  consumed.  And  then  I  cannot  bear  that  other  to 
be  he." 

It  was  an  obsession.  Three  times  on  the  same  page  he 
had  written: 

"I  cannot  bear  that  other  to  be  he." 

She  also  was  possessed  by  but  one  idea:  she  must  not 
lose  him.  She  would  have  said  anything,  done  anything 
not  to  lose  him.  She  sat  down,  and  in  an  outburst  of 
passion,  tender  and  pathetic,  wrote  a  letter,  in  which  over 
and  over  again  she  repeated  like  a  groan:  "I  love  you,  I 
love  you,  I  have  never  loved  any  one  but  you.  You  are 
alone,  alone,  alone,  do  you  understand?  Alone  in  my  heart, 
alone  in  me.  Don't  listen  to  that  wretch.  Listen  to  me. 
I  swear  to  you  I  loved  no  one,  no  one  before  you." 

While  she  was  writing,  the  indistinct,  vague  sighing 
of  the  sea  accompanied  the  heaving  of  her  breast.  She 
wanted  to  write  and  believed  she  was  writing  the  truth; 
and  all  she  said  was  sincere  with  the  sincerity  of  her 
love.  She  heard  her  father's  firm  heavy  step  on  the  stairs. 
She  hid  her  letter  and  opened  the  door.  Montessuy  coax- 
ingly  asked  if  she  were  better. 

"I  came  to  wish  you  good-night  and  to  ask  you  some- 
thing," he  said.  "I  shall  probably  see  Le  Menil  at  the  races 
to-morrow.  He  always  goes,  and  he  is  a  man  of  regular 
habits.  If  I  meet  him,  dear,  do  you  mind  my  inviting 
him  to  come  and  spend  a  few  days  here?  Your  husband 
thinks  you  would  be  pleased  to  see  him.  He  might  have 
the  blue  room." 

"As  you  like.  But  I  would  rather  you  kept  the  blue 
room  for  Paul  Vence,  who  very  much  wants  to  come.  It 
is  possible,  too,  that  Choulette  may  come  without  sending  us 
word.  It  is  just  like  him.  We  shall  see  him  one  morning 
ringing  at  our  gate  like  a  beggar.  My  husband  is  mis- 
taken when  he  thinks  I  like  Le  Menil.  Besides,  next  week 
I  must  go  to  Paris  for  a  few  days." 


XXIX 

TWENTY-FOUR  hours  after  writing  her  letter,  ThSrese 
arrived  from  Dinard  at  Dechartre's  little  house,  at 
Les  Ternes.*  She  had  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  an  ex- 
cuse for  going  to  Paris.  She  had  travelled  with  her  husband, 
who  wished  to  visit  his  constituency,  undermined  by  social- 
ists, in  the  department  of  Aisne.  In  the  morning  she 
surprised  Jacques  in  his  studio,  as  he  was  outlining  a  big 
figure  of  Florence,  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno,  weeping 
over  her  ancient  glory. 

The  model  was  posing,  seated  on  a  very  high  stool.  She 
was  a  tall  dark  girl.  The  glare  from  the  window  accentu- 
ated the  clear  lines  of  her  hip  and  thigh,  the  hardness  of 
her  face,  her  dark  neck  and  yellow  skin,  the  veins  on  her 
breast,  the  muscles  of  her  knees  and  feet,  the  toes  of 
which  overlapped.  Therese  looked  curiously  at  her,  realis- 
ing the  beauty  of  her  form,  in  spite  of  neglect  and 
emaciation. 

Dechartre,  with  his  chisel  and  his  pellet  of  day  in 
hand,  came  to  meet  Therese  with  a  sad  affectionate  air 
which  touched  her.  Then,  putting  the  clay  and  the  instru- 
ment on  the  edge  of  the  easel  and  covering  the  figure  with 
a  damp  cloth,  he  said  to  the  model: 

"That  is  enough  for  to-day,  my  girl." 

Then  she  rose,  awkwardly  gathered  together  her  clothes, 
a  mere  handful  of  dark  woollen  stuff  and  soiled  linen,  and 
went  behind  the  screen  to  dress. 

Meanwhile  the  sculptor  washed  his  hands,  whitened 
by  the  clinging  clay,  in  a  green  earthenware  basin.  Then 
he  went  out  of  the  studio  with  Therese. 

They  passed  beneath  the  plane-tree.  The  scales  from 
its  trunk  were  strewing  the  sand  of  the  courtyard. 

*  A  district  of  Paris  between  the  Avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee 
and  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes. — W.S. 

204 


THE  RED  LILY  205 

She  said: 

"You  don't  think  so  any  longer,  do  you?" 

He  took  her  to  his  room. 

Her  letter  from  Dinard  had  already  partly  corrected  his 
painful  impression.  It  had  come  at  the  very  moment  when, 
worn  out  with  suffering,  he  needed  calm  and  tenderness.  A 
few  lines  in  writing  had  appeased  his  anguish.'  His  was 
a  soul  that  fed  on  images,  that  was  less  sensitive  to  things 
than  to  symbols  of  things.  But  there  was  still  a  painful 
twist  in  his  heart. 

In  the  room  everything  seemed  on  her  side:  the  fur- 
niture, the  curtains,  the  rugs  spoke  of  love.  She  murmured 
sweet  words: 

"But  how  could  you  believe  it?  ...  Don't  you  know 
what  you  are?  ...  It  was  madness!  .  .  .  How  could  a 
woman  who  has  known  you  tolerate  any  one  else?" 

"But  before?" 

"Before,  I  was  waiting  for  you." 

"And  wasn't  he  at  the  Dinard  races?" 

She  did  not  think  so;  and  it  was  perfectly  certain 
that  she  wasn't  there — horses  and  horsey  men  bored 
her. 

"Jacques,  you  are  like  no  one  else  and  need  fear  no 
one."  .; 

On  the  contrary  he  realised  his  own  insignificance;  he 
knew  that  the  individual  counts  for  little  in  a  world  where 
persons  are  like  corn  and  chaff  united  or  winnowed  by  one 
movement  of  the  fan  in  the  hand  of  a  rustic  or  of  a  god. 
But  the  regular  measured  motion  of  the  material  or  of 
the  mystic  fan  prevents  the  metaphor  from  being  strictly 
applied  to  life.  Men  seemed  to  him  more  like  beans  in 
the  trough  of  a  coffee-mill.  The  fact  had -been  brought  home 
to  him  two  days  before  as  he  watched  Madame  Fusellier 
grinding  her  coffee. 

"Why  have  you  no  pride?"  Therese  asked  him. 

She  said  little;  but  she  spoke  with  her  eyes,  her  arms, 
and  her  breath,  as  her  breast  rose  and  fell. 

In  the  glad  surprise  of  seeing  and  hearing  her,  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  persuaded. 

She  asked  him  who  had  spoken  those  hateful  words. 


206  THE  RED  LILY 

There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  tell  her.  It  was 
Daniel  Salomon. 

She  was  not  surprised.  Daniel  Salomon,  who  was  said 
to  be  incapable  of  being  any  woman's  lover,  at  least  wished 
to  be  intimate  with  all,  and  to  know  their  secrets.  She 
guessed  why  he  had  spoken  thus. 

"Jacques,  don't  be  angry  at  what  I  am  going  to  say: 
you  are  not  very  clever  at  disguising  your  feelings.  He 
suspected  that  you  loved  me;  and  he  wanted  to  make  sure. 
I  am  certain  that  he  no  longer  has  any  doubts  concerning 
our  relations;  but  I  don't  mind  that.  On  the  contrary  if 
you  were  a  better  deceiver,  I  should  be  less  easy.  I  should 
think  that  you  did  not  love  me  enough." 

She  changed  the  subject  quickly,  afraid  of  making  him 
anxious. 

"I  didn't  tell  you  how  delighted  I  was  with  your  figure. 
Florence  on  the  Arno  bank!  That  is  you  and  I." 

"Yes,  into  that  figure  I  have  put  all  the  ardour  of  my 
love.  It  is  sad,  and  I  want  it  to  be  beautiful.  Do  you  see, 
Therese,  that  beauty  is  sorrowful.  That  is  why  I  have 
suffered  since  my  life  became  beautiful." 

He  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  flannel  coat  and  took  out 
his  cigarette-case.  But  she  urged  him  to  dress.  She  would 
take  him  home  to  lunch.  They  would  spend  the  whole 
day  together.  It  would  be  delightful. 
?  She  looked  at  him  with  childlike  joy.  Then  she  grew 
sad,  remembering  that  at  the  end  of  the  week  she  must 
return  to  Dinard,  and  afterwards  go  to  Joinville,  and  that 
all  that  time  they  would  be  parted. 

She  would  ask  her  father  to  invite  him  to  Joinville  for 
a  few  days.  But  they  would  not  be  alone  and  free  there 
as  they  were  in  Paris. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  "Paris  in  its  vague  immensity  is 
best  for  us. 

"Even  in  your  absence,"  he  added,  "I  could  not  leave 
Paris.  I  should  hate  to  live  in  countries  that  do  not  know 
you.  A  sky,  mountains,  trees,  springs,  statues  that  could 
not  speak  to  me  of  you  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  me." 

While  he  dressed  she  turned  over  the  pages  of  a  book 
she  had  found  on  the  table.  It  was  "The  Arabian  Nights." 


THE  RED  LILY  207 

It  was  illustrated  by  prints  of  viziers,  sultanas,  black  eu- 
nuchs, bazaars,  and  caravans. 

"Do  'The  Arabian  Nights'  amuse  you?"  she  asked. 

"Very  much,"  he  replied,  putting  on  his  tie.  "When 
I  like  I  can  believe  in  those  Arabian  princes  whose  legs 
were  turned  into  black  marble,  and  the  women  of  the 
harem  who  haunt  cemeteries  at  night.  These  stories  sug- 
gest easy  dreams  which  make  me  forget  life.  Yesterday  I 
went  to  bed  very  sad,  and  I  read  the  story  of  the  three 
one-eyed  Calendars." 

"You  try  to  forget,"  she  said  rather  bitterly.  "I  would 
not  for  the  world  efface  the  memory  of  any  trouble  which 
came  from  you." 

They  went  down  into  the  street  together.  She  was  to 
take  a  cab  a  little  farther  on,  so  as  to  arrive  a  few  min- 
utes before  him. 

"My  husband  expects  you  to  lunch." 

On  the  way  they  talked  of  trivialities,  which  in  the  light 
of  their  love,  became  important  and  delightful.  They 
planned  out  their  afternoon  so  as  to  cram  into  it  as  much 
as  possible  of  the  infinitude  of  deep  joy  and  the  delight 
of  cleverly  contrived  pleasure.  She  consulted  him  about 
her  dresses.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  leave  him,  so 
happy  was  she  to  walk  with  him  down  the  sunlit  streets 
in  the  glad  cheerfulness  of  noon.  When  they  reached  the 
avenue  of  Les  Ternes  there  was  a  row  of  provision  shops 
displaying  their  wares  in  lavish  profusion.  Strings  of  birds 
at  the  poulterer's  door,  boxes  of  apricots  and  peaches, 
baskets  of  grapes  and  heaps  of  pears,  at  the  fruiterer's. 
Carts  full  of  fruit  and  flowers  blocked  up  the  roadway. 
In  the  glass-covered  space  in  front  of  a  restaurant,  men 
and  women  were  having  lunch.  Among  them  Therese  rec- 
ognised Choulette,  sitting  alone  at  a  little  table  by  an 
oleander  in  a  tub,  lighting  his  pipe. 

Having  seen  her,  he  haughtily  threw  a  five-franc  piece 
on  to  the  table,  rose  and  took  off  his  hat.  He  was  very 
grave;  and  his  long  frock-coat  gave  him  an  austere  and 
decorous  air. 

He  said  he  would  have  liked  to  have  gone  to  see  Madame 
Martin  at  Dinard.  But  the  Marchioness  of  Rieu  had  kept 


208  THE  RED  LILY 

him  in  Vendee.  Meanwhile  he  had  published  a  new  edition 
of  the  Jardin  Clos,  to  which  he  had  added  the  Verger  of 
Sainte  Claire.  He  had  touched  hearts  that  had  been  thought 
hard,  and  made  streams  flow  from  rocks. 

"So,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  a  kind  of  Moses." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  took  out  of  his  pocketbook  a 
dirty  crumpled  letter. 

"This  is  what  Madame  Raymond,  the  Academician's  wife, 
writes.  I  am  publishing  her  words  because  they  do  her 
credit." 

And,  unfolding  the  thin  sheets,  he  read: 

"I  have  called  my  husband's  attention  to  your  book; 
and  he  cried:  'This  is  pure  mysticism!  Here  is  a  walled 
garden,  which  I  think,  among  its  lilies  and  white  roses, 
must  have  a  little  door  leading  into  the  road  to  the 
Academy.' " 

Having  tasted  to  the  full  the  savour  of  these  words 
mingled  with  the  fumes  of  brandy,  Choulette  carefully  put 
back  the  letter  into  his  pocketbook. 

Madame  Martin  congratulated  the  poet  on  being  Madame 
Raymond's  candidate. 

"You  would  be  mine,  Monsieur  Choulette,  if  I  troubled 
about  elections  to  the  Academy.  But  do  you  really  want 
to  become  a  member?" 

For  a  few  moments  he  was  solemnly  silent.  Then  he 
said: 

"Madame,  I  am  on  my  way  to  confer  with  various  well- 
known  persons  in  the  political  and  religious  world,  who 
live  at  Neuilly.  The  Marchioness  of  Rieu  is  urging  me 
to  stand  in  her  neighbourhood  as  candidate  for  a  seat  in 
the  Senate,  which  has  fallen  vacant  through  the  death  of 
an  old  man,  who,  it  is  said,  was  a  general  while  he  lived 
this  life  of  illusion.  I  am  going  to  the  Boulevard  Bineau 
to  consult  priests,  women,  and  children  on  this  matter — O 
Eternal  Wisdom!  The  constituency,  whose  support  I  shall 
solicit,  is  situated  in  an  undulating,  wooded  country,  with 
fields  bordered  by  pollarded  willows.  In  the  hollow  of 
one  of  these  willows  is  sometimes  found  a  chouan's  skele- 
ton, still  holding  his  gun,  with  a  rosary  between  his  fleshless 
fingers.  My  profession  of  faith  shall  be  pasted  on  the 


THE  RED  LILY  209 

oak-trees'  bark.  This  shall  be  my  manifesto:  'Peace  for 
the  priests'  houses!  May  the  day  come  when  the  bishops, 
with  wooden  croziers,  may  be  like  unto  the  poorest  curate 
of  the  poorest  parish!  It  was  the  bishops  who  crucified 
Jesus  Christ.  Their  names  were  Annas  and  Caiaphas.  And 
they  still  bear  those  names  before  the  Son  of  God.  Now, 
while  they  were  nailing  Him  to  the  Cross,  I  was  the  good 
thief,  at  His  side.' " 

He  pointed  with  his  stick  towards  Neuilly: 

"Dechartre,  my  friend,  is  not  that  the  Boulevard  Bineau, 
from  which  the  dust  is  rising  down  there  on  the  right?" 

"Good-bye,  Monsieur  Choulette,"  said  Therese.  "Don't 
forget  me  when  you  are  a  senator." 

"Madame,  I  remember  you  in  all  my  prayers,  both  at 
matins  and  vespers.  And  I  say  to  God:  'Since  in  Thy 
wrath,  Thou  hast  given  her  wealth  and  beauty,  look  upon 
her  in  mercy,  O  Lord,  and  deal  with  her  according  to 
Thy  great  loving  kindness.' " 

And  limping  stiffly,  he  went  away  down  the  crowded 
avenue. 


XXX 

THfiRfiSE,  wrapped  in  a  pink  cloth  mantle,  was  com- 
ing down  the  steps  with  Dechartre.  He  had  arrived 
at  Joinville  that  morning.  She  had  planned  that  he  should 
join  the  small  circle  of  intimate  friends,  before  the  hunt- 
ing season  began;  for  she  was  afraid  that  Le  Menil,  of 
whom  she  had  heard  nothing,  would  then  be  invited  as 
usual.  The  soft  September  air  blew  through  the  curls  of 
her  hair,  and  the  declining  sun  made  her  dark  grey  eyes 
glitter  with  sparks  of  gold.  Behind  them  the  fagade  of  the 
chateau  displayed  busts  of  Roman  emperors  on  high  ped- 
estals in  the  spaces  between  the  windows,  above  the  three 
arcades  of  the  ground  floor.  The  main  building  was  flanked 
by  two  high  wings  raised  still  higher  by  extravagant  Ionic 
pillars  supporting  their  great  slate  roofs.  This  style  was 
characteristic  of  the  architect  Leveau.  In  1650  he  had 
planned  the  chateau  of  Joinville-sur-Oise  for  that  rich 
Mareuilles,  who  was  the  creature  of  Mazarin  and  the  for- 
tunate accomplice  of  Surintendant  *  Fouquet. 

Therese  and  Jacques  saw  before  them  the  flower-beds  ar- 
ranged in  great  semicircles  designed  by  Le  Notre,  the  green 
lawn  and  the  fountain;  then  the  grotto  with  its  five  rustic 
arches,  its  giants'  heads  terminating  in  columns,  and  its  big 
trees  tinted  already  with  autumn  colours  of  purple  and 
gold. 

"All  the  same,"  said  Dechartre,  "these  geometrical  fig- 
ures in  flowers  and  foliage  have  their  beauty." 

"Yes,"  said  Therese,  "but  I  am  thinking  of  a  plane-tree 
bending  over  a  grass-grown  court-yard.  We  will  plant  flow- 
ers in  it,  and  put  up  a  beautiful  fountain,  won't  we?" 

Leaning  against  one  of  the  stone  lions,  with  almost  hu- 
man faces,  which  guarded  the  filled  up  moat  at  the  bottom 
of  the  steps,  she  "turned  round  to  the  chateau,  and,  looking 

*  The  King's  chief  financial  minister. 

210 


THE  RED  LILY  211 

a*  one  of  the  dormer  windows,  in  the  guise  of  an  open 
dragon's  mouth,  above  the  cornice,  she  said: 

"That  is  your  room;  I  went  up  there  yesterday  evening. 
On  the  same  story  on  the  other  side,  right  at  the  end 
of  the  passage,  is  papa's  study.  A  white  deal  table,  a 
mahogany  desk,  a  water-bottle  on  the  mantelpiece:  his  study 
as  it  was  when  he  was  a  young  man.  Our  fortune  was 
made  in  it." 

Walking  down  the  sanded  garden  paths  they  came  to 
the  trim  box  hedge,  bordering  the  park  on  its  southern 
side.  They  passed  in  front  of  the  orangery,  the  monumental 
door  of  which  was  surmounted  by  Mareuilles's  Lorraine 
cross,  and  they  entered  the  lime  walk  on  one  side  of  the 
green  lawn.  Under  the  trees  half  stripped  of  their  leaves, 
statues  of  nymphs  seemed  to  shiver  in  the  damp  shade, 
streaked  with  pale  rays  of  light.  A  pigeon,  perched  on  the 
shoulder  of  one  of  these  white  women,  took  flight.  From 
time  to  time  a  dry  leaf,  detached  by  a  gust  of  wind,  flut- 
tered down,  and  lay  like  a  shell  of  reddish  gold  holding 
a  raindrop.  Therese  pointed  to  the  nymph  and  said: 

"She  watched  me  when  I  was  a  child  and  longed  to  die. 
I  was  distressed  by  fear  and  desire.  I  was  waiting  for  you. 
But  you  were  so  far  away." 

At  a  point  where  several  paths  met  the  lime-tree  walk 
was  interrupted.  A  lake  was  there.  In  its  centre  was 
a  group  of  Tritons  and  sea-nymphs,  blowing  into  shells — 
forming,  when  the  fountain  was  at  work,  a  diadem  of 
water  with  flourishes  of  foam. 

"That  is  the  Joinville  crown,"  she  said. 

She  showed  him  a  path,  beginning  at  the  lake  and  lead- 
ing into  the  country,  towards  the  rising  sun. 

"That  is  my  path.  How  often  have  I  walked  down  it 
sorrowfully.  I  was  sad  before  I  knew  you." 

They  continued  in  the  walk,  which,  with  other  limes 
and  other  nymphs,  went  on  beyond  the  lake.  They  fol- 
lowed it  as  far  as  the  grottos.  Situated  at  the  end  of  the 
park,  the  grottos  were  a  semicircle  of  rock-work  huts,  sur- 
mounted by  balusters,  and  separated  by  statues  of  giants. 
One  of  these  statues,  at  one  corner  of  the  grotto,  towered 
over  it  in  its  huge  nakedness  and  seemed  to  look  down 


212  THE  RED  LILY 

upon  it  with  a  stony  glance  at  once  fierce  and  benevolent. 

"When  my  father  bought  Joinville,"  she  said,  "the  grot- 
tos were  a  mere  mass  of  ruins  overgrown  with  grass  and 
full  of  vipers.  Thousands  of  rabbits  had  burrowed  in  them. 
He  restored  the  statues  and  arches  according  to  Perelle's 
prints  in  the  National  Library.  He  was  his  own  archi- 
tect." 

A  desire  for  shade  and  retirement  led  them  to  a  pleached 
walk  at  the  side  of  the  grottos.  But  a  sound  of  foot- 
steps coming  from  the  covered  walk  made  them  pause  a 
moment.  And  through  the  leaves  they  saw  Montessuy  with 
his  arm  round  Princess  Seniavine.  They  were  quietly  walk- 
ing towards  the  chateau.  Jacques  and  Therese,  hidden  by 
a  great  statue,  waited  till  they  had  passed.  Then  she  said  to 
Dechartre,  who  was  looking  at  her  in  silence: 

"This  is  too  much!  Now  I  understand  why  Princess 
Seniavine  asked  papa's  advice  when  she  bought  her  horses 
last  winter." 

Nevertheless  Therese  could  not  help  admiring  her  father 
for  having  won  this  beautiful  woman,  who  was  considered 
difficult  to  please,  and  was  known  to  be  rich  in  spite  of 
occasional  embarrassments  resulting  from  her  spendthrift 
habits.  She  asked  Jacques  if  he  did  not  think  the  Princess 
very  beautiful. 

He  recognised  that  she  possessed  a  certain  distinction; 
but  her  charms  were  too  sensuous  for  him.  She  was  beau- 
tiful doubtless,  but  in  her  swarthy  beauty  he  detected  a 
smear  of  the  tar-brush,  a  negroid  strain. 

Therese  replied  that  it  was  possible,  but  that  neverthe- 
less, in  the  evening,  Princess  Seniavine  threw  every  other 
woman  into  the  shade. 

At  the  back  of  the  grottos,  she  took  Jacques  up  moss- 
grown  steps  leading  to  the  Sheaf  of  Oise,  formed  by  a 
clump  of  leaden  reeds  in  the  middle  of  a  basin  of  pink 
marble.  There  towered  the  tall  trees  which  shut  in  the 
park  and  marked  the  beginning  of  the  wood.  They  passed 
into  the  forest.  They  were  silent  amidst  the  faint  rustling 
of  the  leaves.  Beyond  the  magnificent  curtain  of  elms, 
stretched  thickets  of  aspen  trees  and  birches,  the  silver 
bark  of  which  glittered  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 


THE  RED  LILY  213 

He  held  her  tightly  in  his  arms  and  rained  kisses  on  her 
eyelids.  Night  came  down;  the  earliest  stars  were  twin- 
kling among  the  branches.  The  croaking  of  the  frogs  was 
heard  in  the  damp  grass.  They  went  no  farther. 

When  in  the  darkness  she  turned  back  with  him  towards 
the  castle,  there  remained  on  her  lips  a  taste  of  kisses  and 
of  mint,  and  in  her  eyes  the  vision  of  her  lover,  who,  stand- 
ing by  the  trunk  of  a  willow  seemed  like  a  faun,  while 
she  in  his  arms,  with  her  hands  clasped  round  his  neck, 
swooned  with  voluptuous  delight.  As  she  passed  beneath 
the  lime-trees,  she  smiled  at  the  nymphs  who  had  seen 
her  childhood's  tears.  In  the  sky  Cygnus  was  displaying 
his  cross  of  stars,  and  the  moon  was  reflecting  her  deli- 
cate horn  in  the  basin  of  the  lake.  The  insects  in  the 
grass  were  singing  songs  of  love.  Turning  the  last  corner 
of  the  box  hedge,  Therese  and  Jacques  perceived,  black 
and  menacing,  the  triple  mass  of  the  chateau,  and  through 
the  great  bow-windows  of  the  ground-floor  they  discerned 
forms  moving  in  the  red  light.  The  bell  was  ringing. 

"I  have  only  just  time  to  dress  for  dinner,"  cried 
Therese. 

And  in  front  of  the  stone  lions  she  escaped  from  her 
lover,  vanishing  quickly  like  a  vision  in  a  fairy  tale. 

In  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  M.  Berthier  d'Eyzelles 
was  reading  a  newspaper,  and  Princess  Seniavine  was  play- 
ing patience  at  the  card-table.  Therese,  her  eyes  half- 
closed  over  a  book,  feeling  still  the  pricking  at  her  ankles 
of  the  thorns  which  had  scratched  her  among  the  brush- 
wood, was  recalling  with  a  shudder  how  her  lover  had  taken 
her  in  the  woods,  like  a  faun  playing  with  a  nymph.  The 
Princess  asked  if  her  book  were  amusing. 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  dreaming  while  I  read.  Paul 
Vence  was  right:  'It  is  only  ourselves  that  we  find  in 
books.' " 

Through  the  curtains  could  be  heard  the  staccato  tones 
of  the  players  and  the  clashing  of  balls  in  the  billiard- 
room. 

"I  have  done  it,"  cried  the  Princess,  throwing  away 
her  cards. 


214  THE  RED  LILY 

That  day  she  had  put  a  big  sum  on  a  horse  at  the  Chan- 
tilly  races. 

Therese  said  she  had  had  a  letter  from  Fiesole.  Miss 
Bell  announced  her  approaching  marriage  with  Prince 
Eusebio  Albertinelli  della  Spina. 

The  Princess  began  to  laugh:  "There's  a  man  who  will 
do  her  a  great  service." 

"What  service?"  asked  Therese. 

"Why,  he  will  make  her  disgusted  with  men." 

Montessuy  came  into  the  drawing-room,  very  gay.  He 
had  just  won. 

He  sat  down  by  Berthier  d'Eyzelles,  and  taking  an  un- 
folded newspaper  from  the  sofa,  read: 

"At  the  meeting  of  the  Chamber,  the  Minister  of  Fi- 
nance will  bring  forward  his  savings-bank  bill." 

It  was  a  question  of  authorising  savings-banks  to  lend 
money  to  the  communes,  which  would  result  in  depriv- 
ing the  banks  that  Montessuy  directed  of  their  best 
customers. 

"Berthier,"  asked  the  financier,  "are  you  resolutely  de- 
termined to  oppose  this  bill?" 

Berthier  nodded. 

Montessuy,  rising,  put  his  hand  on  the  deputy's  shoulder. 

"My  dear  Berthier,  I  have  an  idea  that  the  ministry 
will  be  defeated  at  the  beginning  of  the  session." 

He  went  up  to  his  daughter. 

"Le  Menil  has  written  me  a  strange  letter." 

Therese  went  and  shut  the  door  leading  to  the  billiard- 
room. 

She  was  afraid  of  draughts,  she  said. 

"A  strange  letter,"  resumed  Montessuy.  "Le  Menil  won't 
hunt  at  Joinville.  He  has  bought  a  yacht  of  eighty  tons,  the 
Rosebud.  He  is  yachting  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  can't 
live  on  land.  It  is  a  pity.  He  is  about  the  only  man  I 
know  who  can  lead  the  hunt." 

Just  at  this  moment  Dechartre  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  Count  Martin.  After  having  beaten  Dechartre 
at  billiards,  the  Count  became  friendly;  and  he  was  ex- 
plaining the  dangers  of  taxation  based  on  household  expenses 
and  the  number  of  servants. 


XXXI 

HPHE  pale  winter  sunlight  shone  through  the  mist  from 

A  the  Seine  on  to  the  dogs  of  Oudry  above  the  dining- 
room  doors. 

On  Madame  Martin's  right  sat  Deputy  Garain,  ex-Keeper 
of  the  Seals,  ex-President  of  the  Council,  on  her  left  the 
Senator  Loyer.  On  Count  Martin-Belleme's  right  was 
M.  Berthier  d'Eyzelles.  A  small  and  serious  political 
luncheon-party.  According  to  Montessuy's  prophecy,  the 
ministry  had  been  defeated  four  days  ago.  Summoned  to 
the  Elysee  that  very  morning,  Garain  had  accepted  the  task 
of  forming  a  cabinet.  During  lunch  he  was  drawing  up 
the  list  of  names  to  be  submitted  to  the  President  in 
the  evening. 

And,  while  they  were  discussing  names,  Therese  was 
recalling  the  scenes  in  her  secret  life. 

She  had  returned  to  Paris  with  Count  Martin  in  time 
for  the  reassembling  of  the  Chamber,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment she  had  been  living  an  enchanted  life. 

Jacques  loved  her;  he  loved  her  with  a  delightful 
mingling  of  passion  and  tenderness,  of  knowledge  and  curi- 
osity. He  was  nervous,  irritable,  anxious.  But  his  moody 
temperament  made  her  appreciate  his  gaiety  all  the  more. 
That  artistic  gaiety,  bursting  forth  suddenly  like  a  flame, 
enhanced  love  without  ever  offending  it.  And  her  lover's 
witty  merriment  was  a  constant  wonder  to  Therese.  She 
had  never  imagined  possible  that  perfect  grace  which  he 
displayed  alike  in  his  merry  moments  and  in  his  more 
intimate  moods.  In  earlier  days  his  passion  had  been 
gloomy  and  monotonous.  That  alone  had  attracted  her. 
But  since  then  she  had  discovered  his  overflowing  versa- 
tile gaiety,  the  unique  grace  of  his  sentiments,  his  gift 
of  drinking  pleasure's  draught  to  the  very  dregs. 

"It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  .of  a  homogeneous  ministry," 
cried  Garain.  "We  must  come  into  touch  with  the  tend- 
encies of  the  various  parties." 

215 


216  THE  RED  LILY 

He  was  anxious.  He  felt  himself  surrounded  by  all 
the  snares  he  had  laid  for  others.  Even  his  collaborators 
he  regarded  as  enemies. 

Count  Martin  wanted  the  new  ministry  to  gratify  the 
aspirations  of  the  ultra-modern  party.  "Your  list  includes 
persons  who  differ  widely  in  origin  and  opinions,"  he  said. 
"Now  perhaps  the  most  important  innovation  in  the  po- 
litical history  of  the  last  few  years  is  that  it  has  become 
possible,  I  may  say  necessary,  for  the  government  of  the 
Republic  to  be  unanimous.  These  are  the  very  views,  my 
dear  Garain,  which  you  have  yourself  expressed  with  such 
rare  eloquence." 

M.  Berthier  d'Eyzelles  was  silent. 

Senator  Loyer  was  crumbling  his  bread.  It  was  an 
old  habit  he  had  acquired  in  taverns;  and  he  could 
think  best  while  cutting  corks  or  rolling  crumbs  of  bread. 
He  raised  his  pimpled  face,  fringed  with  an  unkempt 
beard,  and,  with  sparkling  eyes,  looking  constrainedly  at 
Garain : 

"I  said  so;  but  no  one  would  believe  me.  The  annihila- 
tion of  the  monarchical  right  was  an  irreparable  misfor- 
tune for  the  leaders  of  the  republican  party.  They  lost  a 
strong  opposition,  which  is  a  government's  best  support. 
All  the  measures  of  the  Empire  were  directed  against  the 
Orleanists  and  against  us;  the  government  of  the  i6th 
of  May  was  hostile  to  the  Republicans.  And  we  were  more 
fortunate  still:  we  directed  all  our  measures  against  the 
Right.  And  what  an  excellent  opposition  the  Right  was — 
ominous,  candid,  weak,  vast,  honest,  unpopular!  We  ought 
to  have  kept  it.  But  we  did  not.  And  then,  it  must  be 
admitted,  everything  wears  out  in  time.  Nevertheless,  some 
kind  of  opposition  is  absolutely  necessary.  To-day  only 
the  Socialists  can  give  us  that  strength  which  the  Right 
furnished  fifteen  years  ago,  with  such  unfailing  generosity. 
But  they  are  too  weak.  They  must  be  strengthened,  multi- 
plied, and  made  into  a  political  party.  At  the  present 
moment  that  is  the  first  duty  of  the  Minister  of  the 
Interior." 

Garain,  who  was  not  cynical,  did  not  reply. 

"Do    you    know   yet,    Garain,"    asked    Count    Martin, 


THE  RED  LIL\  217 

"whether  you  will  be  Keeper  of  the  Seals  or  Minister  of 
the  Interior  as  well  as  President  of  the  Council?" 

Garain  replied  that  his  decision  depended  on  the  choice 

made  by  N ,  whom  it  was  necessary  to  include  in  the 

cabinet,  and  who  was  hesitating  between  the  two  offices. 
Garain  was  ready  to  sacrifice  his  personal  convenience  to 
the  public  interest. 

Senator  Loyer  was  pulling  a  wry  face.  He  wanted  the 
Seals.  He  had  long  cherished  this  desire.  He  had  been 
a  law  tutor  under  the  Empire,  and,  at  Cafe  tables,  had  given 
highly  appreciated  lessons.  He  had  a  feeling  for  chicanery. 
Having  laid  the  foundation  of  his  political  fortune  by  arti- 
cles expressed  so  as  to  involve  him  in  prosecution,  law- 
suits, and  some  weeks  in  prison,  he  had  henceforth  con- 
sidered the  press  as  a  weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  oppo- 
sition, which  should  be  broken  by  every  good  government. 
Since  the  4th  of  September,  1870,  he  had  dreamed  of  be- 
coming Keeper  of  the  Seals;  he  wanted  to  show  people  how 
an  old  Bohemian,  who  had  served  his  time  in  the  Ste. 
Pelagic  Prison  in  Badinguet's  days,  a  law  tutor  who  once 
expounded  the  Code  while  supping  off  sauer-kraut  and 
sauce,  could  rise  to  the  highest  legal  appointment. 

Dozens  of  fools  had  passed  him  by.  He  had  grown 
old  in  the  mediocrity  of  the  Senate;  dirty,  bewitched  by 
a  girl  he  had  picked  up  in  a  tavern,  poor,  lazy,  disillusioned ; 
his  old  Jacobinism  and  his  sincere  contempt  of  the  people 
outlived  his  ambitions  and  still  attached  him  to  the  gov- 
ernment. Now,  having  become  associated  with  Garain  and 
his  group,  he  thought  justice  was  about  to  be  done  to 
him.  And  his  patron,  who  denied  it,  became  an  impor- 
tunate rival.  He  sneered  as  he  modelled  a  poodle  out  of 
bread-crumbs. 

M.  Berthier  d'Eyzelles,  very  calm,  very  grave,  very  de- 
jected, stroked  his  white  whiskers  and  said: 

"Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  include  those  in  the  cab- 
inet who  from  the  very  first  have  adopted  the  policy 
towards  which  we  are  inclining  to-day?" 

"It  was  that  course  that  ruined  them,"  replied  Garain 
impatiently.  "A  politician  should  never  precede  public 
opinion.  It  is  a  mistake  to  see  things  too  quickly.  It  is 


218  THE  RED  LILY 

not  thinkers  that  we  want  in  politics.  Besides,  let  us  be 
perfectly  frank:  if  you  want  a  ministry  of  the  left  centre, 
say  so,  and  I  withdraw.  But  I  warn  you  that  neither 
the  Chamber  nor  the  country  will  be  with  you." 

"It  is  obvious,"  said  Count  Martin,  "that  we  must  make 
certain  of  having  a  majority." 

"If  you  accept  my  nominations,  then  your  majority  is 
assured,"  said  Garain.  "Our  opponents  were  supported 
by  the  minority  swelled  by  the  votes  that  we  have  won. 
Gentlemen,  I  appeal  to  your  public  spirit." 

And  the  difficult  work  of  assigning  the  various  offices 
began  again.  Count  Martin  was  offered  Public  Works, 
which  he  refused  on  the  ground  of  incompetence;  and  then 
Foreign  Affairs,  which  he  accepted  without  making  any  ob- 
jection. But  M.  Berthier  d'Eyzelles,  to  whom  Garain 
offered  Commerce  and  Agriculture,  demurred. 

Loyer  was  sent  to  the  Colonial  Office.  He  seemed  chiefly 
concerned  in  making  his  bread-crumb  poodle  stand  up  on 
the  tablecloth.  Meanwhile,  out  of  the  corner  of  his  little 
eye,  from  among  his  wrinkles,  he  was  looking  at  Countess 
Martin  and  admiring  her.  He  was  dreaming  vaguely  of 
meeting  her  again  some  day  in  private. 

Leaving  Garain  to  fend  for  himself,  he  devoted  his  atten- 
tion to  this  pretty  woman;  he  tried  to  discover  her  tastes 
and  her  habits,  asked  her  if  she  were  fond  of  the  theatre 
and  if  sometimes  her  husband  took  her  to  cafes  in  the 
evening.  And  Therese  began  to  find  that,  in  spite  of  his 
dirt,  with  his  ignorance  of  society  and  his  superb  cynicism 
he  was  more  interesting  than  the  others. 

Garain  rose.  He  had  still  to  see  N ,  N ,  and 

N before  presenting  his  list  to  the  President  of  the 

Republic.  Count  Martin  offered  him  his  carriage,  but 
Garain  had  his  own. 

"Don't  you  think,"  asked  Count  Martin,  "that  the  Presi- 
dent may  object  to  certain  names?" 

"The  President,"  said  Garain,  "will  take  into  considera- 
tion the  needs  of  the  hour." 

He  had  already  crossed  the  threshold  when  he  returned, 
exclaiming: 

"We  have  forgotten  the  War  Minister." 


THE  RED  LILY  219 

"You  will  easily  find  one  among  the  generals,"  said  Count 
Martin. 

"Ah,"  cried  Garain,  "do  you  think  the  choice  of  a 
War  Minister  so  easy?  It  is  obvious  that  you  have  not 
as  I  have  belonged  to  three  cabinets  and  presided  over  the 
council.  During  my  ministries  and  while  I  was  President, 
our  most  insuperable  difficulties  always  came  from  the 
Minister  of  War.  All  generals  are  the  same.  You  know 
the  one  I  appointed  when  I  formed  a  cabinet.  We  chose 
him  because  he  was  totally  ignorant  of  politics.  He  was 
hardly  aware  that  there  were  two  Chambers.  We  had  to 
explain  to  him  the  whole  working  of  the  parliamentary 
machine;  to  teach  him  that  there  was  a  war  committee, 
a  committee  of  finance,  subcommittees,  reporters,  a  debate 
on  the  budget.  He  asked  us  to  write  it  all  down  on  half 
a  sheet  of  notepaper.  His  ignorance  of  men  and  things 
was  alarming.  ...  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  was  famil- 
iar with  all  the  tricks  of  politics,  was  personally  acquainted 
with  all  the  senators  and  all  the  deputies,  and  was  in- 
triguing with  them  against  us.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
support  of  President  Grevy,  who  always  mistrusted  soldiers, 
he  would  have  turned  us  out.  And  he  was  a  very  ordinary 
general,  just  like  all  the  rest.  Ah!  don't  think  the  office 
of  War  Minister  can  be  bestowed  hastily  or  without  mature 
reflection.  .  .  ." 

And  Garain  shuddered  to  think  of  his  former  colleague 
on  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain.*  He  went  out. 

Therese  rose.  Senator  Loyer  offered  her  his  arm  with 
the  elegant  bow  he  had  learnt  at  Bullier's  forty  years  ago. 
She  left  the  politicians  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  in 
a  hurry  to  meet  Dechartre. 

The  Seine,  the  stone  quays  and  the  plane-trees  with 
their  golden  leaves  were  shrouded  in  a  yellowish  brown 
fog.  Over  a  cloudy  sky  the  red  sun  was  casting  the  last 
glories  of  the  year.  Therese,  coming  out  of  doors,  delighted 
in  the  exhilarating  sharpness  of  the  air  and  the  dying  splen- 
dour of  the  day.  Since  her  return  to  Paris  she  had  been 

*  Where  the  French  War  Office  is  situated. — W.S. 


220  THE  RED  LILY 

so  nappy  that  every  morning  she  rejoiced  in  the  changing 
weather.  In  her  benevolent  egoism  it  seemed  as  if  it  were 
for  her  that  the  wind  blew  through  the  ragged  trees,  or 
that  the  horizon  of  avenues  became  grey  in  the  fine  rain, 
or  that  the  sun  dragged  its  cooled  orb  across  the  chilly 
sky;  it  was  all  for  her,  that  she  might  say  when  she  en- 
tered the  little  house  at  Les  Ternes:  "It  is  windy,  it  rains, 
it  is  a  fine  day,"  thus  introducing  the  world  of  external 
things  into  the  intimacy  of  their  love.  And  every  dawn 
seemed  beautiful,  because  the  day  was  to  bring  her  to  her 
lover's  arms. 

On  that  day  as  on  every  day,  as  she  took  her  way  to 
the  little  house  at  Les  Ternes,  she  was  thinking  of  her 
unexpected  happiness,  so  complete  and,  she  felt,  so  secure. 
She  walked  in  the  last  glorious  sunshine,  already  threat- 
ened by  winter,  and  she  was  saying  to  herself: 

"He  loves  me,  I  think  he  loves  me  with  all  his  heart. 
To  love  is  easier  and  more  natural  for  him  than  for  other 
men.  In  their  lives  there  is  something  above  them,  a  faith, 
habits,  or  interests.  They  believe  in  God,  or  in  duty,  or 
in  themselves.  He  only  believes  in  me.  I  am  his  god,  his 
duty,  his  life." 

Then  she  thought: 

"It  is  true  also  that  he  is  not  dependent  on  any  one, 
not  even  on  me.  His  own  thoughts  are  a  magnificent  world 
in  which  he  could  live  easily.  But  I  cannot  live  without 
him.  What  would  become  of  me  if  I  had  him  no  longer?" 

She  was  reassured  when  she  thought  of  his  passionate  ad- 
miration of  her,  and  the  spell  she  had  cast  over  him.  She 
remembered  having  said  to  him  one  day:  "You  only  love 
me  with  a  sensual  love.  I  do  not  complain;  perhaps  it  is 
the  only  love  that  is  true."  And  he  had  replied:  "It  is  the 
only  love  that  is  great  and  strong.  It  has  its  measure  and 
its  weapons.  It  is  full  of  sense  and  imagination.  It  is 
violent  and  mysterious.  Its  object  is  the  body.  The  rest 
is  but  a  lie  and  an  illusion."  She  was  almost  at  rest  in 
her  joy.  Suspicion,  anxiety  had  vanished  like  the  clouds 
of  a  summer  storm.  Their  worst  time  had  been  when  they 
were  separated  from  each  other.  Lovers  should  never  be 
parted. 


THE  RED  LILY  221 

At  the  corner  of  the  Avenue  Marceau  and  the  Rue  Galilee 
she  half  divined,  rather  than  recognised,  a  shadow — that 
of  a  form  forgotten,  which  had  passed  close  to  her.  She 
believed  and  she  wished  to  believe  that  she  was  mistaken. 
He  whom  she  imagined  she  had  seen  was  no  longer,  had 
never  been.  It  was  a  phantom  beheld  in  the  limbo  of  a 
former  world,  in  the  darkness  of  a  visionary  existence.  And 
she  went  on,  but  this  uncertain  meeting  left  a  coldness,  a 
vague  uneasiness,  and  an  ill-defined  fear  in  her  heart. 

As  she  went  up  the  avenue  she  saw  the  newspaper  sellers 
coming  towards  her  holding  out  the  evening  papers  with 
large  headlines,  announcing  the  new  ministry. 

She  crossed  the  Place  de  1'Etoile,  walking  hurriedly  in 
the  happy  impatience  of  her  desire.  In  her  mind's  eye  she 
saw  Jacques  awaiting  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  among 
the  nude  figures  of  marble  and  bronze,  taking  her  in  his 
arms  and  carrying  her,  already  quivering  and  faint  with 
kisses,  to  that  shaded  room  of  delight,  where  the  joy  of 
living  made  her  forget  life. 

But,  in  the  solitude  of  the  Avenue  Mac-Mahon,  the  shadow 
seen  already  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Galilee,  approached 
and  appeared  close  to  her  with  a  lifelike  and  painful  dis- 
tinctness. She  recognised  Robert  le  Menil,  who,  having  fol- 
lowed her  from  the  Quai  de  Billy,  now  joined  her  in  the 
quietest  safest  spot. 

His  air,  his  attitude  indicated  that  transparency  of  soul 
which  once  had  pleased  Therese.  His  face,  naturally  hard, 
browned  by  sea  and  sun,  a  trifle  hollow,  very  calm,  bore 
traces  of  deep  suffering. 

"I  must  speak  to  you." 

She  slackened  her  step.    He  walked  at  her  side. 

"I  have  tried  to  forget  you.  After  what  had  happened 
you  will  agree  it  was  only  natural.  I  did  my  very  best.  It 
would  certainly  have  been  better  to  forget  you.  But  I 
could  not.  Then  I  bought  a  yacht.  For  six  months  I  have 
been  at  sea.  Perhaps  you  know?" 

She  signified  that  she  knew. 

He  resumed: 

"The  Rosebttd,  a  pretty  boat  of  eighty  tons.  I  had  a 
crew  of  six  men.  I  worked  with  them.  It  distracted  me." 


222  THE  RED  LILY 

He  was  silent.  She  was  walking  slowly,  saddened  but 
chiefly  annoyed.  It  was  utterly  absurd  and  painful  for 
her  to  listen  to  this  strange  talk. 

He  resumed: 

"What  I  suffered  on  that  yacht  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
tell  you." 

She  felt  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth  and  turned  away. 

"Oh!  I  forgive  you.  When  I  was  alone,  I  reflected 
much.  Days  and  nights  I  passed  lying  on  the  divan  in 
the  deck-house;  over  and  over  again  I  returned  to  the  same 
thoughts.  During  those  six  months  I  thought  more  than 
I  have  done  in  my  whole  life.  Don't  laugh.  There  i? 
nothing  like  sorrow  for  opening  one's  mind.  I  understood 
that  if  I  had  lost  you  it  was  my  own  fault.  I  ought  to 
have  known  how  to  keep  your  love.  And,  lying  full  length, 
while  the  Rosebud  skimmed  over  the  sea,  I  said  to  myself: 
'I  did  not  know  how  to  keep  her.  Oh!  if  I  could  begin  over 
again!'  By  dint  of  thinking  and  suffering  I  came  to  under- 
stand; I  understood  that  I  had  not  sympathised  enough 
with  your  tastes  and  ideas.  You  are  an  intellectual  woman. 
I  didn't  notice  it,  because  I  didn't  love  you  for  that.  I 
unconsciously  wounded  and  irritated  you." 

She  shook  her  head.    He  insisted. 

"Yes,  yes!  I  often  wounded  you.  I  was  not  considerate 
enough  of  your  sensitive  temperament.  There  were  misun- 
derstandings between  us.  They  arose  from  our  being  so 
different.  And  then  I  never  knew  how  to  distract  you.  I 
never  gave  you  the  kind  of  pleasures  that  an  intelligent 
women  like  you  requires." 

He  was  so  simple  and  sincere  in  his  regrets  and  his 
suffering  that  her  heart  went  out  to  him.  She  said  gently: 

"My  friend,  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of  in  you." 

He  resumed: 

"All  that  I  have  just  said  is  true.  I  understood  it  in 
my  boat  out  at  sea.  The  hours  I  lived  through  there  I 
would  not  desire  for  my  greatest  enemy.  Many  a  time  I 
thought  of  jumping  overboard.  I  did  not  do  it.  Was  it 
because  of  religious  principles  or  considerations  for  my 
family  or  lack  of  courage?  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  you  far  away  were  attracting  me  to  life.  I  was 


THE  RED  LILY  223 

being  drawn  to  you,  therefore  I  am  here.  I  have  been 
watching  you  for  two  days.  I  would  not  come  to  your 
house.  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  see  you  alone.  And 
then  you  would  have  been  obliged  to  receive  me.  I  thought 
it  better  to  speak  in  the  street.  The  idea  came  to  me  on 
board  my  yacht.  I  said  to  myself:  'In  the  street  if  she 
listens  to  me  it  will  be  because  she  wishes  to,  just  as  she 
did  four  years  ago,  in  the  park  at  Joinville,  you  know, 
by  the  statues,  near  the  Crown.' " 

And  he  resumed  with  a  deep  sigh: 

"Yes,  as  at  Joinville,  since  we  must  begin  over  again. 
I  have  been  watching  you  for  two  days.  Yesterday  it 
rained;  you  drove  out.  I  might  have  followed  and  seen 
where  you  went.  I  wanted  to;  but  I  didn't.  I  determined 
not  to  do  anything  that  would  displease  you." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  "Thank  you.  I  knew  I  should 
never  regret  having  confided  in  you." 

Alarmed,  impatient,  nervous,  fearing  what  he  would  say 
next,  she  tried  to  break  off  and  to  leave  him. 

"Good-bye!  You  have  life  before  you.  You  are  happy. 
Only  realise  it  and  cease  troubling  about  what  is  not 
worth  while." 

But  he  interrupted  her  with  a  look.  There  had  come 
over  his  face  that  intense,  resolute  expression  she  knew 
so  well. 

"I  told  you  I  had  something  to  say.  Listen  for  one 
minute." 

She  thought  of  Jacques,  who  must  be  expecting  her 
now. 

A  few  rare  passers-by  looked  at  her  and  went  on  their 
way.  She  stopped  beneath  the  branches  of  the  Judas-tree 
and  waited  in  pity  and  fear. 

"See,"  he  said,  "I  forgive  and  I  forget.  Take  me  back. 
I  promise  never  to  refer  to  the  past." 

She  trembled.  Her  surprise  and  distress  were  so  evi- 
dent that  he  stopped. 

Then  after  a  moment's  reflection: 

"I  know  that  what  I  propose  is  unusual.  But  I  have 
thought  it  over.  It  is  the  only  possible  thing  to  do.  Con- 
sider it,  Therese,  and  don't  give  me  an  answer  at  once." 


224  THE  RED  LILY 

"It  would  be  wrong  to  deceive  you.  I  cannot  and  will 
not  agree  to  what  you  propose;  and  you  know  why." 

A  cab  was  passing  slowly.  She  hailed  it,  and  it  stopped. 
He  kept  her  a  minute  longer. 

"I  expected  you  to  say  that;  therefore  I  say  again  don't 
give  me  an  answer  at  once." 

With  her  hand  on  the  carriage  door,  she  looked  at  him 
out  of  her  grey  eyes. 

It  was  a  sad  moment  for  him.  He  recalled  the  times 
when  he  had  seen  those  eyes  half  closed.  He  stifled  a 
sob  and  murmured  in  a  husky  voice: 

"Listen,  I  cannot  live  without  you;  I  love  you.  Now  I 
really  love  you.  Before  I  did  not  know." 

And,  while  she  gave  the  cabman  a  dressmaker's  address, 
he  walked  away  with  a  brisk  easy  gait,  which  to-day,  how- 
ever, was  a  little  less  firm  than  usual. 

This  meeting  left  her  anxious  and  uneasy.  If  she  must 
see  him  again,  she  would  have  preferred  to  find  him  vio- 
lent and  brutal  as  at  Florence. 

At  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  she  called  out  to  the 
coachman:  "Les  Ternes,  Rue  Demours." 


XXXII 

IT  was  Friday  at  the  opera.  The  curtain  had  just  gone, 
down  on  Faust's  laboratory.  Now  the  orchestra  stall* 
were  in  movement,  opera-glasses  were  at  work  surveying 
the  hall  of  purple  and  gold  beneath  the  lights  far  up  in 
the  immensity  of  the  roof.  Like  precious  stones  in  their 
caskets,  the  bejewelled  heads  of  the  women  and  their  bare 
shoulders  glittered  in  the  dark  boxes.  Hanging  over  the  pit 
was  the  amphitheatre,  in  one  long  garland  of  diamonds, 
flowers,  beautiful  hair,  dazzling  necks  and  shoulders,  gauze 
and  satin.  In  the  front  rows  of  the  stalls  were  to  be 
seen  the  Austrian  Amoassadress,  and  the  Duchess  of  Glad- 
win;  in  the  amphitheatre,  Berthe  d'Isigny  and  Jane  Tulle, 
who  had  been  made  famous  by  the  suicide  of  her  lover  on 
the  previous  day;  in  the  boxes,  Madame  Berard  de  La 
Malle,  with  downcast  eyes,  her  long  eyelashes  shading  her 
finely  moulded  face;  Princess  Seniavine,  superb,  hiding  her 
yawns  behind  her  fan;  Madame  de  Morlaine,  between  two 
young  married  women  whom  she  was  educating  in  the  art 
of  being  gracefully  clever;  Madame  Meillan,  happy  in  thft 
assurance  of  thirty  years  of  incomparable  beauty ;  Madame 
Berthier  d'Eyzelles,  stiff,  with  iron-grey  hair  loaded  with 
diamonds.  Her  bad  complexion  accentuated  the  severe  dig^ 
nity  of  her  bearing.  Every  one  was  looking  at  her.  That 
morning,  it  had  been  reported  that  after  Garain's  failure, 
M.  Berthier  d'Eyzelles  had  undertaken  to  form  a  cabinet. 
His  task  was  nearly  accomplished.  The  list  of  ministers 
was  in  the  newspapers,  and  included  Martin-Belleme  at  the 
Treasury.  And  opera-glasses  were  turned  uselessly  to  the 
Countess's  box,  which  was  still  empty. 

The  house  resounded  with  a  great  murmur  of  voices.  In 
the  third  row  of  the  orchestra  stalls,  General  Lariviere, 
standing  in  his  usual  place,  was  talking  to  General  de  La 
Briche. 

"I  shall  soon  follow  your  example,  old  chap,  and  retire 
to  grow  cabbages  in  Touraine." 

225 


226  THE  RED  LILY 

He  was  in  one  of  those  melancholy  moods  when  anni- 
hilation seemed  the  necessary  sequence  to  the  rapidly  ap- 
proaching end  of  life.  He  had  flattered  Garain,  and  Garain, 
thinking  him  too  clever,  had  passed  him  by  and  appointed 
a  short-sighted  faddist,  a  general  of  artillery,  to  be  Min- 
ister of  War.  Lariviere,  however,  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  Garain  abandoned,  betrayed  by  his  friends  Berthier 
d'Eyzelles  and  Martin-Belleme.  The  wrinkles  round  his 
little  eyes  were  puckered  up  with  laughter.  On  his  crabbed 
face  the  crow's-feet  seemed  to  laugh  all  by  themselves.  He 
was  laughing  only  in  profile.  Weary  of  a  long  life  of  dis- 
simulation, he  now  suddenly  indulged  in  the  joy  of  ex- 
pressing his  thoughts: 

"My  good  La  Briche,  they  are  really  too  stupid  with 
their  civil  army  which  is  expensive  and  useless.  Small 
armies  are  the  only  ones  that  are  any  good.  That  was 
Napoleon's  opinion,  and  he  knew." 

"It  is  true,  quite  true,"  sighed  General  de  La  Briche, 
moved  to  tears. 

Montessuy  passed  them  on  his  way  to  his  seat;  Lariviere 
held  out  his  hand.  "I  hear  that  it  was  you,  Montessuy, 
who  defeated  Garain.  I  congratulate  you." 

Montessuy  protested  that  he  never  meddled  in  politics. 
He  was  neither  senator,  nor  deputy,  nor  even  member  of 
the  General  Council  for  Oise.  And  looking  at  the  house 
through  his  glass: 

"Look,  Lariviere,  in  that  box  on  the  right,  there  is  a  very 
pretty  woman  with  her  hair  in  flat  bandeaux  coming  well 
over  her  forehead." 

And  he  took  his  place,  tranquil  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
reality  of  power. 

Meanwhile  in  the  foyer,  in  the  passages,  and  in  the  house 
the  names  of  the  new  ministers  were  being  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth  with  sluggish  indifference.  President  of 
the  Council  and  Home  Secretary,  Berthier  d'Eyzelles;  Min- 
ister of  Justice  and  Religion,  Loyer;  Minister  of  Finance, 
Martin-Belleme.  All  the  appointments  were  known  except 
the  Ministers  of  Commerce,  War,  and  the  Fleet,  not  yet 
nominated. 

The  curtain  had  risen  on  the  tavern  of  the  god  Bacchus. 


THE  RED  LILY  227 

The  students  were  singing  their  second  chorus,  when 
Madame  Martin  appeared  in  her  box,  her  hair  dressed  high; 
her  white  gown  with  winglike  sleeves;  and  over  her  left 
breast  a  great  lily  in  rubies  sparkling  on  her  white  bodice. 

Miss  Bell  was  sitting  next  her  in  a  Queen  Anne  gown 
of  green  velvet.  Engaged  to  Prince  Eusebio  Albertinelli 
della  Spina,  she  had  come  to  Paris  to  order  her  trousseau. 

In  the  noise  and  movement  of  the  throng: 

"Darling,"  said  Miss  Bell,  "at  Florence  you  have  left 
a  friend  who  tenderly  cherishes  the  charm  of  your  mem- 
ory, Professor  Arrighi.  He  gives  you  what  he  considers 
the  highest  of  all  praise:  he  says  that  you  are  a  musical 
being.  But  how  should  Professor  Arrighi  forget,  when 
even  the  broom  bushes  in  the  garden  remember  you?  Their 
bare  branches  moan  over  your  absence.  Oh!  they  long  for 
you,  darling." 

"Tell  them,"  said  Therese,  "that  from  Fiesole  I  brought 
away  a  delightful  memory  which  is  to  be  my  very  life." 

At  the  back  of  the  box,  M.  Martin-Belleme  in  a  low 
voice  was  giving  his  views  to  Joseph  Springer  and  Du- 
vicquet.  He  was  saying:  "The  credit  of  France  is  the  best 
in  the  world,"  and  again:  "Let  us  pay  off  our  debt  by  using 
our  surplus,  not  by  imposing  taxes."  He  was  in  favour  of 
prudent  finance. 

And  Miss  Bell  went  on: 

"I  will  tell  the  broom-bushes  of  Fiesole,  that  you  long  for 
them,  darling,  that  you  will  soon  come  back  to  them  on 
the  hill.  But,  I  want  to  ask  you:  do  you  often  meet  M. 
Dechartre  at  Paris?  I  should  so  much  like  to  see  him 
again.  I  like  him  because  he  has  a  distinguished  soul.  Yes, 
darling,  M.  Dechartre's  soul  is  full  of  grace  and  distinction." 

Therese  replied  that  probably  M.  Dechartre  was  in  the 
house  and  that  he  would  not  fail  to  come  and  see  Miss 
Bell. 

The  curtain  went  down  on  the  myriad  coloured  whirl 
of  a  waltz.  People  pressed  into  the  passage:  financiers, 
artists,  deputies,  in  one  moment  crowded  into  the  little 
salon  adjoining  the  box.  They  surrounded  M.  Martin- 
Belleme,  muttered  their  congratulations,  nodded  their  com- 
pliments over  each  other's  heads,  and  nearly  stifled  each 


228  THE  RED  LILY 

other  in  their  efforts  to  shake  hands  with  him.  Joseph 
Schmoll,  coughing  and  whining,  blind  and  deaf,  scornfully 
pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd  and  reached  Madame 
Martin.  He  took  her  hand,  breathed  heavily  upon  it,  and 
covered  it  with  resounding  kisses. 

"I  hear  that  your  husband  has  been  appointed  minister. 
Is  it  true?" 

She  knew  it  was  rumoured,  but  did  not  think  anything 
was  decided  yet.  But  her  husband  was  here.  Why  not 
ask  him? 

Always  grasping  at  literal  truth,  he  said: 

"Ah!  your  husband  is  not  yet  a  minister?  When  he 
is  nominated  I  will  ask  you  for  a  moment's  conversation. 
It  is  a  matter  of  the  highest  importance." 

Then  he  was  silent,  looking  through  his  gold  spectacles, 
with  that  glance  of  the  blind  man  and  the  visionary,  which 
in  spite  of  the  brutal  precision  of  his  temperament,  sur- 
rounded him  with  a  kind  of  mysticism. 

"You  have  been  to  Italy  this  year,  Madame?"  he  asked 
abruptly.  And  without  giving  her  time  to  reply: 

"I  know,  I  know.  You  went  to  Rome.  You  looked  at 
that  infamous  Arch  of  Titus,  that  execrable  monument  bear- 
ing among  the  spoils  from  Judea  the  Seven  Branched  Can- 
dlestick. Ah  well!  Let  me  tell  you,  Madame,  that  the 
universe  should  be  ashamed  of  permitting  that '  Arch  to 
remain  standing  in  the  city  of  Rome,  where  the  Popes  have 
only  been  able  to  exist  by  means  of  the  art  of  the  Jews, 
the  silversmiths,  and  the  money-changers.  The  Jews  intro- 
duced •  the  science  of  Greece  and  of  the  East  into  Italy. 
Madame,  the  Renaissance  is  the  work  of  Israel.  That  is 
absolute  but  unacknowledged  truth." 

And  he  went  out  through  the  crowded  ante-room,  tread- 
ing on  the  hats  which  collapsed  with  a  dull  thud  beneath  his 
heavy  footsteps.  Meanwhile  Princess  Seniavine,  in  the 
front  of  her  box,  was  looking  at  her  friend  through  the 
glass  with  that  curiosity  with  which  now  and  again  the 
beauty  of  women  inspired  her.  She  signed  to  Paul  Vence, 
who  was  near  her: 

"Don't  you  think  Madame  Martin  wonderfully  beautiful 
this  year?" 


THE  RED  LILY  229 

In  the  foyer  sparkling  with  light  and  gold,  General  de  La 
Briche  asked  Lariviere: 

"Have  you  seen  my  nephew?" 

"Your  nephew?    Le  Menil?" 

"Yes,  Robert.    He  was  in  the  house  just  now." 

La  Briche  thought  for  a  moment.    Then: 

"He  came  to  Semanville  this  summer.  I  thought  him 
strange,  absent-minded.  A  nice  fellow,  perfectly  frank 
and  intelligent.  But  he  ought  to  have  a  career,  an  object 
in  life." 

It  was  a  moment  since  the  bell  announcing  the  rise  of 
the  curtain  had  stopped  ringing.  The  two  old  men  were 
passing  through  the  deserted  foyer. 

"An  object  in  life,"  repeated  La  Briche,  tall,  thin,  and 
bent,  while  his  comrade,  brisk  and  active,  left  him  behind 
and  reached  the  theatre  door. 

Marguerite  was  spinning  and  singing  in  the  wood.  When 
she  had  finished,  Miss  Bell  said  to  Madame  Martin: 

"Oh!  darling,  M.  Choulette  has  written  me  a  perfectly 
beautiful  letter.  He  told  me  that  he  was  very  famous. 
And  I  was  delighted  to  hear  it.  And  he  added:  'The  fame 
of  other  poets  rests  upon  spices  and  myrrh.  Mine  bleeds 
and  groans  beneath  a  shower  of  stones  and  oyster-shells.' 
Is  it  really  true,  my  love,  that  good  M.  Choulette  is  being 
stoned  by  his  fellow  countrymen?" 

While  Therese  was  reassuring  Miss  Bell,  Loyer  came 
into  the  box  with  an  imperious  and  blustering  air. 

He  was  wet  and  muddy. 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  Elysee,"  he  said. 

He  had  the  politeness  to  announce  the  good  news  to  Ma- 
dame Martin  first. 

"The  appointments  are  ratified.  Your  husband  is  Min- 
ister of  Finance.  It  is  a  fine  office." 

"Did  the  President  of  the  Republic  make  no  objection 
when  my  name  was  brought  before  him?"  asked  M.  Martin- 
Belleme. 

"None.  Berthier  reminded  him  of  the  hereditary  up- 
rightness of  the  Martins,  of  your  wealth,  and  especially  of 
your  connection  with  certain  personages  in  the  financial 
world,  where  support  may  be  useful  to  the  government. 


230  THE  RED  LILY 

And,  to  employ  Garain's  happy  expression,  the  President 
realised  the  needs  of  the  hour.  He  confirmed  the  appoint- 
ment." 

Count  Martin's  sallow  face  wrinkled  slightly.    He  smiled. 

"The  official  announcement,"  resumed  Loyer,  "will  ap- 
pear in  L'Officiel  to-morrow.  I  drove  in  a  cab  with  the  gov- 
ernment clerk  who  was  taking  it  to  the  editor's  office.  It 
was  a  necessary  precaution.  In  the  days  of  Grevy,  who  was 
by  no  means  a  fool,  official  decrees  have  been  intercepted 
on  their  way  from  the  Elysee  to  the  Quai  Voltaire." 

And  Loyer  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  There,  while 
admiring  Madame  Martin's  shoulders,  he  continued: 

"It  can  no  longer  be  said,  as  in  the  days  of  my  poor 
friend  Gambetta,  that  the  Republic  has  no  women.  You, 
Madame,  will  entertain  royally  in  the  ministerial  halls." 

Marguerite,  wearing  her  necklace  and  her  earrings,  was 
looking  in  the  glass  and  singing  the  jewel  song. 

"We  must  draw  up  our  manifesto,"  said  Count  Martin. 
"I  have  already  been  thinking  of  it.  With  regard  to  my 
own  department  I  think  I  have  discovered  an  excellent  pro- 
gramme: The  debt  to  be  paid  off  from  the  surplus.  No 
new  taxation." 

Loyer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"My  dear  Martin,  there  is  no  reason  for  making  any 
radical  change  in  the  programme  of  the  last  cabinet;  the 
situation  remains  essentially  the  same." 

An  idea  suddenly  struck  him. 

"The  deuce!  I  had  forgotten.  We  have  sent  your 
old  friend  Lariviere  to  the  War  Office,  without  consulting 
him.  I  was  commissioned  to  tell  him  the  news." 

He  thought  he  might  find  him  in  a  cafe  on  the  boule- 
vards frequented  by  officers.  But  Count  Martin  said  he 
was  in  the  house. 

"We  must  get  hold  of  him,"  said  Loyer. 

Bowing  to  Madame  Martin: 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  carry  off  your  husband, 
Countess?" 

They  had  just  gone  out  when  Jacques  Dechartre  and 
Paul  Vence  came  into  the  box. 

"I  congratulate  you,  Madame."  said  Paul  Vence. 


THE  RED  LILY  231 

But  she  turned  to  Dechartre: 

"I  hope  you  have  not  come  to  congratulate  me  .  .  .  ?" 

Paul  Vence  asked  if  they  would  live  in  the  ministerial 
residence. 

"Not  for  anything." 

"But  at  any  rate,  Madame,"  resumed  Paul  Vence,  "you 
will  go  to  the  balls  at  the  Elysee  and  the  Government 
Offices;  and  we  shall  admire  the  art  with  which  you  will 
preserve  your  mysterious  charm,  and  continue  the  subject 
of  our  dreams." 

"Ministerial  changes  seem  to  inspire  you  with  very  frivo- 
lous reflections,  Monsieur  Vence,"  said  Madame  Martin. 

"Madame,"  he  replied,  "I  will  not  say  with  Renan,  my 
beloved  master:  'What  does  that  matter  to  Sirius?'  because 
you  would  rightly  reply:  'What  has  big  Sirius  to  do  with 
the  little  Earth?'  But  it  always  surprises  me  somewhat 
to  see  the  mature  and  even  the  aged  led  astray  by  the 
illusion  of  power,  forgetting  that  hunger,  love,  death,  all 
the  mean,  as  well  as  the  sublime  necessities  of  life,  exer- 
cise so  imperious  a  control  over  the  mass  of  mankind  that 
those  who  rule  over  their  bodies  are  left  with  nothing 
more  than  power  on  paper  and  empire  in  words.  And 
what  is  more  wonderful  still — the  people  believe  that  they 
have  other  rulers  than  their  poverty,  their  desire,  and  their 
imbecility.  He  was  a  wise  man  who  said:  'Let  us  appoint 
Irony  and  Pity  to  be  the  witnesses  and  judges  of  man- 
kind.' " 

"But,  Monsieur  Vence,"  laughed  Madame  Martin,  "you 
wrote  that  yourself — I  read  your  books." 

Meanwhile  in  the  theatre  and  the  passages,  the  .two  min- 
isters were  looking  in  vain  for  the  General.  Through  the 
group  of  box-keepers,  they  went  behind  the  stage,  and  past 
the  stage  scenery,  which  was  being  put  up  and  taken  down, 
through  the  crowd  of  young  German  girls  in  red  petti- 
coats, sorcerers,  demons,  ancient  courtesans,  they  came  into 
the  foyer  of  the  ballet.  The  vast  room,  painted  with  alle- 
gorical figures,  almost  deserted,  had  that  air  of  gravity  aris- 
ing from  State  ownership  and  the  endowment  of  wealth. 
There  were  two  dancers  standing  mournfully,  with  one  foot 
on  the  bar  running  along  the  wall.  Here  and  there  men  in 


232  THE  RED  LILY 

black  coats  and  women  in  short  full  skirts  were  standing  in 
groups^  in  almost  perfect  silence. 

As  they  entered,  Loyer  and  Martin-Belleme  took  off  their 
hats.  Across  the  room  they  saw  Lariviere  with  a  pretty 
girl,  whose  pink  tunic  with  a  gold  belt  was  slit  up  the  sides 
over  her  tights. 

She  was  holding  in  her  hand  a  piece  of  cardboard  covered 
with  gilt  paper.  As  they  approached,  they  heard  her  saying 
to  the  General: 

"You  are  old,  but  I  am  sure  you  go  in  for  it  as  much  as 
he  does." 

And  with  her  bare  arm  she  pointed  disdainfully  to  a 
young  man,  with  a  gardenia  in  his  button-hole,  standing  near 
them  and  grinning.  Loyer  signed  to  the  General  that  he 
wanted  to  speak  to  him;  and,  pushing  him  against  the  bar, 
said: 

"I  have  pleasure  in  announcing  your  appointment  as  Min- 
ister of  War." 

Lariviere,  incredulous,  did  not  reply.  This  badly  dressed 
man,  with  long  hair,  who  in  his  long  dusty  coat  looked  like 
some  shouting  juggler,  inspired  him  with  such  mistrust  that 
he  suspected  a  trap,  perhaps  a  practical  joke. 

"Monsieur  Loyer,  Keeper  of  the  Seals,"  said  Count 
Martin. 

Loyer  insisted: 

"General,  you  cannot  refuse.  I  have  answered  for  your 
acceptance.  If  you  hesitate  you  will  promote  the  unde- 
sirable return  of  Garain.  He  is  a  traitor." 

"My  dear  colleague,  you  exaggerate,"  said  Count  Martin. 
"But  perhaps  Garain  lacks  frankness.  And  the  General's 
support  is  imperative." 

"Our  country  before  everything,"  replied  Lariviere,  bub- 
bling over  with  excitement. 

"You  know,  General,"  resumed  Loyer:  "existing  laws 
administered  with  inflexible  moderation.  Stand  to  that 
principle." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  two  ballet  girls  stretching 
their  short  muscular  legs  over  the  bar. 

Lariviere  was  murmuring: 

"The  moral  of  the  army  excellent.  .    .    .  The  disinter- 


THE  RED  LILY  233 

estedness  of  the  commanders  rising  to  the  most  critical  situ- 
ations." 

Loyer  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder: 

"My  dear  colleague,  large  armies  are  good  after  all." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  replied  Lariviere,  "the  present  army 
is  sufficient  for  the  highest  requirements  of  national  de- 
fence." 

"The  best  of  big  armies,"  resumed  Loyer,  "is  that  they 
render  war  impossible.  It  would  be  mad  to  engage  in  wai 
with  a  force  so  gigantic  that  it  baffles  every  human  attempt 
to  direct  it.  Don't  you  agree,  General?" 

General  Lariviere  winked: 

"The  present  situation  demands  great  prudence,"  he  said. 
"We  have  to  deal  with  unusual  and  menacing  circum- 
stances." 

Then  Loyer,  looking  at  his  military  colleague  with  a  cer- 
tain mild  cynicism  and  scorn: 

"In  the  very  improbable  case  of  war,  don't  you  think,  ray 
dear  colleague,  that  the  real  generals  would  be  the  station- 
masters?" 

The  three  ministers  went  out,  down  the  stage  staircdse. 
The  President  of  the  Council  was  expecting  them  at  his 
house. 

The  last  act  was  beginning.  Only  Dechartre  and  Miss 
Bell  were  with  Madame  Martin  in  her  box. 

Miss  Bell  was  saying: 

"Darling,  I  am  delighted — how  do  you  say  it  in  French? 
— je  suis  exaltee,  to  think  that  you  wear  the  red  lily  of 
Florence  on  your  heart.  And  M.  Dechartre,  who  has  an 
artist's  soul,  must  be  very  pleased  to  see  those  dear  jewels 
on  your  dress.  Oh!  how  I  should  like  to  know  what  jew- 
eller made  it.  That  lily  is  as  graceful  and  supple  as  an  iris. 
Yes,  it  is  exquisite,  magnificent  and  cruel.  Have  you  .ever 
noticed,  my  love,  that  beautiful  jewels  have  always,  an  air 
of  magnificent  cruelty?" 

"My  jeweller,"  said  Therese,  "is  here,  and  you  have 
named  him:  M.  Dechartre  was  kind  enough  to  design  this 
ornament." 

The  box  door  opened.  Therese  half  turned  and  -saw  Le 
Menil  in  the  shadow  bowing  to  her  with  his  stiff  grace: 


234  THE  RED  LILY 

"Will  you  convey  my  congratulations  to  your  husband, 
Madame?" 

Rather  dryly  he  complimented  her  on  looking  well.  To 
Miss  Bell  he  addressed  a  few  pleasant,  conventional  remarks. 

Therese  was  listening  anxiously,  with  her  mouth  half  open 
in  the  painful  effort  to  make  insignificant  replies. 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  had  a  good  time  at  Joinville.  He 
would  like  to  have  been  there  for  the  hunting.  But  he 
could  not  arrange  it.  He  had  been  yachting  in  the  Medi- 
terranean and  later  hunting  at  Semanville. 

"Oh!  Monsieur  Le  Menil,"  said  Miss  Bell,  "did  you 
wander  over  the  blue  sea?  And  did  you  meet  any  sirens?" 

No,  he  had  not  seen  any  sirens;  but  for  three  days  a 
dolphin  had  accompanied  the  yacht. 

Miss  Bell  asked  whether  the  dolphin  liked  music. 

He  did  not  think  so. 

"Dolphins,"  he  said,  "are  simply  spermaceti-whales  that 
sailors  call  ocean  geese  because  of  a  certain  goose-like  forma- 
tion of  the  head." 

But  Miss  Bell  refused  to  believe  that  the  monster  that 
bore  Arion  to  Cape  Tenarus  had  the  head  of  a  goose. 

"Next  year,  Monsieur  Le  Menil,  if  you  find  a  dolphin 
swimming  round  your  yacht,  I  entreat  you  to  play  to  him  on 
your  flute  the  hymn  to  the  Delphic  Apollo.  Do  you  like  the 
sea,  Monsieur  Le  Menil?" 

"I  prefer  the  woods." 

He  spoke  simply  and  calmly,  quite  self-contained. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Le  Menil,  I  know  how  you  love  the  woods 
and  the  thickets  where  leverets  dance  in  the  moonlight." 

Dechartre  turned  pale;  he  rose  and  went  out. 

It  was  the  church  scene — Marguerite  on  her  knees,  was 
wringing  her  hands,  her  head  bowed  beneath  the  heavy 
weight  of  her  long  fair  plaits.  And  there  resounded  from 
the  organ  and  the  chorus  the  chant  of  the  dead : 

His  Cross  in  Heaven  on  that  dread  day 
Obscures  the  sun's  diminished  ray, 
Chaos  resumes  its  ancient  sway.* 

*  Quand   du   Seigneur  le   jour   luira, 
Sa  croix  au  ciel  resplendira, 
Et  1'univers  s'ecroulera. 


THE  RED  LILY  235 

"Do  you  know,  darling,  that  the  chant  of  the  dead  sung 
in  Catholic  churches  comes  from  a  Franciscan  hermitage? 
It  suggests  the  wind  in  winter  blowing  through  the  larches 
on  the  heights  of  Alvernia." 

Therese  did  not  hear.  Her  soul  had  flown  away  through 
the  door  of  the  box. 

In  the  ante-chamber  there  was  a  sound  of  chairs  being 
overturned.  Schmoll  came  back.  He  had  heard  that  M. 
Martin-Belleme  had  been  appointed  minister.  And  im- 
mediately he  came  to  demand  his  Commander's  Cross  and 
a  larger  flat  at  the  Institute.  At  present  his  rooms  were 
dark  and  small,  not  nearly  large  enough  for  his  wife  and  his 
five  daughters.  The  only  place  for  his  study  was  a  loft. 
He  complained  at  length  and  refused  to  depart  until  Ma- 
dame Martin  promised  to  speak  for  him. 

"Monsieur  Le  Menil,"  asked  Miss  Bell,  "shall  you  go 
yachting  next  year?" 

Le  Menil  thought  not.  He  had  no  intention  of  keeping 
the  Rosebud.  The  sea  was  depressing. 

And  calmly  and  determinedly  he  looked  at  Therese. 

On  the  stage,  in  Marguerite's  prison,  Mephistopheles  was 
singing:  "The  day  has  dawned,"  and  the  orchestra  was 
imitating  the  terrible  gallop  of  the  horses.  Therese  mur- 
mured : 

"I  have  a  headache.    It  is  very  close  in  here." 

Marguerite's  clear  words,  calling  to  the  angels,  were 
wafted  on  the  air. 

"Darling,  I  must  tell  you  that  poor  Marguerite  will  not 
be  saved  according  to  the  flesh,  and  for  that  very  reason  she 
is  saved  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  One  thing  I  believe,  darling, 
that  we  shall  all  be  saved.  Yes,  I  believe  in  the  ultimate 
purification  of  sinners." 

Therese  rose,  tall,  and  dazzlingly  white  in  contrast  to  the 
blood-red  flower  on  her  breast.  Miss  Bell  enthralled  was 
listening  to  the  music.  Le  Menil,  in  the  ante-room,  took 
Madame  Martin's  cloak.  And  while  he  held  it  unfolded, 
she  passed  from  the  box  into  the  ante-room,  and  paused 
before  the  mirror,  near  the  half  open  door.  On  to  her  bare 
shoulders,  touching  them  lightly  with  his  fingers,  he  put  the 
great  cloak  of  red  velvet  embroidered  with  gold  and  lined 


2#S  THE  RED  LILY 

with  emiiwA,  And  said  in  a  low  voice,  very  briefly  and  very 
distinctly: 

"Therese,  1  love  you.  Remember  what  I  asked  you  the 
day  before  yesterday.  Every  day,  every  day,  after  three 
o'clock  I  shall  be  in  our  flat,  Rue  Spontini." 

At  that  moment,  as  she  bent  her  head  for  him  to  put  on 
her  cloak,  she  saw  Dechartre,  with  his  hand  on  the  door- 
handle. He  looked  at  her  with  all  the  reproach  and  sorrow 
the  human  eye  is  capable  of  expressing.  Then  he  turned 
away  down  the  corridor.  It  was  as  if  hammers  of  fire  were 
beating  on  the  walls  of  her  heart,  and  she  remained  motion- 
less on  the  threshold. 

"You  were  waiting  for  me?"  said  Montessuy,  who  had 
come  to  fetch  her.  "You  are  quite  forsaken  to-day;  I  will 
take  you  and  Miss  Bell  home." 


XXXIII 

IN  her  carriage,  in  her  room,  her  lover's  cruel  sorrowful 
look  haunted  her.  She  knew  how  apt  he  was  to  fall  into 
despair,  how  quick  to  lose  command  of  his  will.  In  that 
mood  she  had  seen  him  hastening  along  the  Arno  bank.  In 
his  sadness  and  anguish  it  had  been  her  happiness  then  to 
run  to  him  and  say :  "Come."  And  now  again,  surrounded 
and  observed  as  she  was,  she  ought  to  have  found  something 
to  say  to  him,  and  not  to  have  let  him  go  away  in  silence  and 
suffering.  But  she  had  been  taken  by  surprise  and  over- 
whelmed. The  absurd  incident  had  passed  so  rapidly!  She 
felt  for  Le  Menil  that  impulsive  anger  we  feel  for  things 
that  hurt  us,  the  stone  against  which  we  bruise  our  heads. 
It  was  herself  whom  she  reproached  bitterly  for  having  al- 
lowed her  lover  to  go,  without  one  word,  without  one  glance, 
into  which  she  might  have  put  her  whole  soul. 

While  Pauline  was  waiting  to  undress  her,  she  walked  up 
and  down  impatiently.  Then  she  stopped  abruptly.  In  the 
dark  mirrors,  in  which  the  candles  were  reflected,  she  saw 
the  corridor  at  the  theatre  and  her  lover  hastening  down  it, 
without  looking  back. 

Where  was  he  now?  What  was  he  saying  to  himself 
alone?  It  was  torture  not  to  be  able  to  go  to  him  immedi- 
ately. 

For  a  long  while  she  pressed  her  hands  against  her  heart; 
for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  choking. 

Pauline  uttered  a  little  cry.  On  her  mistress's  white 
bodice  she  saw  drops  of  blood.  Without  her  noticing  it,  the 
stamens  of  the  red  lily  had  scratched  her  hand. 

She  took  off  the  emblem,  which  she  had  worn,  openly 
declaring  the  secret  of  her  heart,  and,  holding  it  in  her  hand, 
she  gazed  at  it  long.  Then  once  again  she  saw  the  Florence 
days,  the  cell  at  San  Marco  where  her  lover's  kiss  fell 
sweetly  on  her  lips,  while  through  the  lashes  of  her  cast 
down  eyelids  she  saw  vaguely  the  angels  £nd  the  blue  sky 
painted  on  the  wall,  the  Lanzi,  and  the  glittering  fountain 

237 


238  THE  RED  LILY 

of  the  ice  vendor  on  the  red  cotton  table-cloth;  the  little 
house  in  the  Via  Alfieri,  its  nymphs,  its  goats,  and  the  room, 
where  the  shepherds  and  the  masks  on  the  screens  listened 
to  her  voice  breaking  the  long  silence. 

All  this  was  no  shadow  of  the  past,  no  phantom  of  former 
days.  It  was  the  present  reality  of  her  love.  And  one 
stupid  word  uttered  by  a  stranger  had  shattered  these  beau- 
tiful things.  Fortunately  it  was  impossible.  Her  love,  her 
lover  were  not  dependent  on  such  a  trifle.  If  only  she  could 
go  to  him,  as  she  was,  half-undressed,  by  night,  and  enter 
his  room.  .  .  .  She  would  find  him  sitting  by  the  fire,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  in  his  hands,  sad.  Then,  with 
her  fingers  in  his  hair,  she  would  make  him  look  up  and  see 
that  she  loved  him,  that  she  was  his,  his  living  treasure  of 
joy  and  love. 

She  had  sent  her  maid  away.  In  bed,  with  her  lamp  lit, 
she  was  pondering  over  one  thought. 

It  was  coincidence,  an  absurd  coincidence.  He  would 
understand  that  nothing  so  stupid  could  affect  their  love. 
What  madness!  for  him  to  be  jealous  of  another!  As  if 
there  were  for  her  any  other  men  in  the  world! 

M.  Martin-Belleme  opened  the  door  of  his  room.  Seeing 
a  light,  he  came  in. 

"Aren't  you  asleep,  Therese?" 

He  had  just  come  from  conferring  with  Berthier  d'Ey- 
zelles  and  his  colleagues.  On  certain  matters  he  wanted 
advice  from  his  wife,  for  he  knew  she  was  clever.  Above 
all  things  he  wanted  sincerity. 

"It  is  done,"  he  said.  "You,  my  love,  will  help  me,  I  am 
sure,  in  a  position  greatly  desired,  but  very  difficult  and 
even  dangerous.  I  owe  it  partly  to  you,  for  it  is  largely 
your  father's  powerful  influence  that  has  placed  me  in  it." 

He  consulted  her  as  to  who  should  be  the  leader  of  the 
cabinet. 

She  gave  him  the  best  advice  she  could.  She  found  him 
sensible,  calm,  and  not  more  foolish  than  the  others. 

He  indulged  in  reflections: 

"In  the  Senate  I  must  support  the  budget  as  it  has  been 
voted  by  the  Chamber.  This  budget  includes  innovations  of 
which  T  did  not  approve.  As  a  deputy  I  opposed  them. 


THE  RED  LILY  239 

As  a  minister  I  shall  support  them.  Then  I  looked  at  things 
from  the  outside.  Seen  from  within  they  are  quite  different. 
Besides,  I  am  no  longer  free." 

He  sighed. 

"Ah!  if  people  only  knew  how  little  one  can  do  when  one 
is  in  power." 

He  gave  her  his  impressions.  Berthier  was  holding  back. 
The  others  were  inscrutable.  Loyer  alone  appeared  ex- 
tremely autocratic. 

She  heard  him  patiently,  but  without  paying  attention. 
That  pale  face  and  thin  voice  were  to  her  a  timepiece  mark- 
ing the  slow  passing  of  the  minutes  one  by  one. 

"Now  and  then  Loyer  gives  utterance  to  the  most  extra- 
ordinary opinions.  At  the  same  time  that  he  declares  him- 
self a  firm  supporter  of  the  Concordat,  he  says:  'The 
bishops  are  the  prejets  of  religion.  I  shall  protect  them  be- 
cause they  belong  to  me.  And  through  them  I  shall  control 
the  spiritual  gamekeepers — the  parish  priests.'  " 

He  reminded  her  that  she  would  have  to 'move  in  a  circle 
not  her  own,  which  would  doubtless  shock  her  by  its  vul- 
garity. But  their  position  would  require  them  to  slight  no 
one.  Besides,  he  counted  on  her  tact  and  her  loyalty. 

She  looked  at  him,  rather  alarmed. 

"Nothing  is  urgent  at  present,  my  love.  We  shall  see 
later." 

He  was  tired  and  overdone.  He  wished  her  good-night 
and  advised  her  to  sleep.  She  would  ruin  her  health  if  she 
read  like  that  all  night.  He  left  her. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  rather  heavier  than 
usual,  while  he  was  crossing  the  study  heaped  up  with  blue- 
books  and  newspapers,  on  his  way  to  the  bedroom,  where 
he  would  sleep,  perhaps.  Then  the  silence  of  the  night  op- 
pressed her.  She  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  half-past 
one. 

She  said  to  herself:  "He  also  is  suffering.  ...  He 
looked  at  me  with  such  anger  and  despair." 

She  had  lost  none  of  her  courage  nor  her  ardour.  What 
made  her  desperate  was  to  be  there,  a  prisoner,  as  if  in 
solitary  confinement.  She  would  be  free  when  day  dawned; 
then  she  would  go  to  him,  see  him,  and  explain  all.  It  was 


240  THE  RED  LILY 

so  simple.  In  the  sad  monotony  of  her  thoughts,  she  lis- 
tened to  the  rolling  of  carts,  at  long  intervals,  on  the  quay. 
This  sound,  which  marked  the  flight  of  the  hours,  arrested 
her  attention,  almost  interested  her.  She  made  an  effort 
to  catch  the  faint  noise  in  the  distance,  growing  more  and 
more  distinct  until  she  could  distinguish  the  rolling  of  the 
wheels,  the  grinding  of  the  axle-trees,  the  clashing  of  hoofs, 
growing  feebler  and  feebler,  and  dying  away  into  an  im- 
perceptible murmur. 

„  And,   when  silence  was  restored,  she  returned   to  her 
thoughts. 

He  would  understand  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  had 
never  loved  any  one  else.  But  it  was  distressing  that  the 
night  was  so  long  in  passing  away.  She  dared  not  look  at 
her  watch,  for  fear  of  perceiving  the  terrible  slowness  of  the 
hours. 

She  rose,  went  to  the  window,  and  drew  aside  the  cur- 
tains. There  was  a  pale  light  in  the  cloudy  sky.  She 
thought  it  must  be  the  beginning  of  daybreak.  She  looked 
at  her  watch.  It  was  half-past  three. 

She  went  back  to  the  window.  The  infinite  darkness  out- 
side attracted  her.  She  looked.  The  pavement  shone  under 
the  gas-lamps.  An  invisible,  silent  rain  was  falling  from 
the  dull  sky.  Suddenly  a  voice  came  out  of  the  silence;  high 
and  then  low,  so  staccato  that  it  seemed  several  voices  re- 
plying to  each  other.  It  was  a  drunkard  loafing  on  the 
pavement  and  knocking  up  against  the  trees.  He  was  en- 
gaged in  a  long  argument  with  the  creatures  of  his  dreams, 
magnanimously  allowing  them  to  speak,  only  to  overwhelm 
them  afterwards  by  wild  gestures  and  imperious  speech. 
Therese  watched  the  poor  man  swaying  along  the  parapet, 
in  his  white  blouse,  like  a  rag  in  the  night  wind,  and  now 
and  again  she  heard  the  words,  constantly  recurring:  "That 
is  what  I  say  to  the  government." 

Numb  with  cold,  she  went  back  to  bed.  An  agonising 
thought  came  into  her  mind.  "He  is  jealous,  madly  jealous. 
It  is  a  physical  matter,  one  of  nerves.  But  his  love  also  is 
physical  and  of  the  nerves.  His  love  and  his  jealousy  are 
the  same  thing.  Another  would  understand.  It  would  be 
enough  to  appeal  to  his  self-respect."  She  knew  that  in 


THE  RED  LILY  241 

him  jealousy  was  physical  torture,  an  open  wound,  extended 
by  the  powers  of  imagination.  She  knew  how  deep-rooted 
was  the  evil.  She  had  seen  him  turn  pale  in  front  of  the 
bronze  St.  Mark,  when  she  posted  her  letter  in  the  wall 
of  the  old  Florentine  house;  and  then  she  was  only  his  in  his 
desire  and  his  dreams. 

Later,  after  their  long  kisses,  she  recalled  his  half-stifled 
complaints,  his  sudden  sadness,  and  the  sorrowful  mystery 
of  the  words  he  was  always  repeating:  "You  alone  can  help 
me  to  forget  you."  She  beheld  the  letter  received  at  Dinard 
and  his  wild  despair  over  a  few  words  heard  in  a  cafe.  She 
felt  that  the  chance  blow  had  fallen  on  the  sensitive  spot,  on 
the  open  wound.  But  she  did  not  lose  heart.  She  would 
say  everything,  confess  everything,  and  all  her  avowals 
would  proclaim:  "I  love  you.  I  have  never  loved  another." 
She  had  never  deceived  him.  She  would  tell  him  nothing 
that  he  had  not  guessed  already.  She  had  lied  so  little,  as 
little  as  possible,  and  merely  to  avoid  giving  him  pain.  How 
could  he  fail  to  understand?  It  would  be  best  that  he 
should  know  all,  since  that  all  amounted  to  nothing.  Over 
and  over  again  she  thought  the  same  thoughts  and  said  to 
herself  the  same  words. 

Her  lamp,  was  going  out.  She  lit  candles.  It  was  half- 
past  six.  She  realised  that  she  had  slept.  She  ran  to  the 
window.  The  sky  was  black,  and  touching  the  earth  seemed 
to  form  one  chaos  of  thick  darkness.  Then  she  became 
curious  as  to  what  hour  the  sun  would  rise.  She  had  no 
idea.  All  she  knew  was  that  the  nights  were  very  long  in 
December.  She  tried  to  remember,  but  could  not.  She 
never  thought  of  looking  at  the  open  calendar  on  the  table. 
The  heavy  footsteps  of  workmen  passing  in  groups,  tke 
noise  of  the  milk  carts  and  the  vegetable  waggons  sounded 
like  good  omens  to  her  ears.  She  shuddered  at  these  first 
signs  of  the  town's  awakening. 


XXXIV 

AT  nine  o'clock,  in  the  courtyard  of  the  little  house,  she 
found  M.  Fusellier  sweeping  away  the  rain-water,  with 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Madame  Fusellier  came  out  of  her 
lodge.  They  both  looked  embarrassed.  Madame  Fusellier 
was  the  first  to  speak: 

"M.  Jacques  is  not  at  home." 

And,  as  Therese  was  silent  and  did  not  move,  Fusellier 
came  up  to  her,  broom  in  hand,  hiding  his  pipe  behind  his 
back. 

"M.  Jacques  has  not  come  home  yet." 

"I  will  wait  for  him,"  said  Therese. 

Madame  Fusellier  showed  her  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  she  lit  the  fire.  And  because  the  wood  only  smoked 
and  refused  to  burst  into  a  flame,  she  stayed  bending  over 
it,  her  hands  on  her  hips. 

"It  is  the  rain,"  she  said,  "that  makes  the  smoke  come 
down  the  chimney." 

Madame  Martin  told  her  not  to  trouble  to  light  a  fire, 
she  was  not  cold. 

She  saw  herself  in  a  mirror.  Her  face  was  white,  except 
for  her  cheeks  which  were  burning.  And  then  only  she  be- 
came aware  that  her  feet  were  as  cold  as  ice.  She  went  up 
to  the  fire.  Madame  Fusellier,  seeing  that  she  was  anxious, 
tried  to  say  something  comforting: 

"M.  Jacques  won't  be  long — wouldn't  Madame  like  to 
warm  herself  while  she  is  waiting?" 

The  rain  was  pattering  on  the  glazed  ceiling  and  the  light 
was  dull.  On  the  walls,  the  lady  with  the  unicorn,  stiff  and 
of  deathly  hue,  seemed  no  longer  beautiful  among  her  cava- 
liers, in  the  forest  full  of  birds  and  flowers.  Therese  was 
muttering  to  herself  the  words: 

"He  has  not  come  home."  As  she  repeated  them  over  and 
over  again,  they  seemed  to  lose  their  meaning.  With  burn- 
Ing  eyes  she  looked  at  the  door. 

She  remained  thus  without  moving,  without  thinking, 

242 


THE  RED  LILY  243 

how  long  she  didn't  know;  perhaps  it  was  half  an  hour. 
Then  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps;  the  door  opened.  He 
entered.  She  saw  that  he  was  wet  through,  and  muddy,  and 
burning  with  fever. 

She  looked  at  him  so  sincerely  and  so  frankly  that  he 
was  astonished.  But,  almost  immediately  all  his  anguish 
welled  up  within  him. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me  now?"  he  said.  "You  have 
done  me  all  the  harm  in  your  power." 

His  fatigue  made  him  seem  gentle.    She  was  alarmed. 

"Jacques,  listen  to  me  .    .    ." 

He  signified  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

"Jacques,  listen.  I  have  not  deceived  you.  Oh!  no  I 
have  not  deceived  you.  Could  it  have  been  possible? 
Could  it  .  .  ." 

He  interrupted: 

"Have  pity  on  me.  Don't  hurt  me  any  more.  Leave  me, 
I  entreat  of  you.  If  you  knew  what  a  night  I  have  passed, 
you  would  not  dare  to  torture  me  further." 

He  sank  on  to  the  divan,  where,  six  months  ago,  he  had 
kissed  her  under  her  veil. 

All  night  he  had  walked  without  thinking  of  where  he 
was  going.  He  had  followed  the  Seine,  until  he  found  its 
banks  fringed  with  willows  and  poplars.  To  still  his  suffer- 
ing he  had  tried  to  distract  his  mind.  On  the  Quai  de  Bercy 
he  had  watched  the  moon  fleeting  among  the  clouds.  For 
an  hour  he  had  seen  her  hidden  and  then  reappearing. 
Then  he  had  set  himself  with  minute  accuracy  to  count  the 
windows  of  houses.  It  had  begun  to  rain.  He  had  gone  to 
the  Market,  and  drunk  brandy  in  a  tavern.  A  big  woman, 
who  squinted,  had  said  to  him:  "You  don't  look  happy." 
He  sank  down  on  a  leather  covered  bench.  And  for  a  mo- 
ment he  was  at  rest. 

The  visions  of  that  terrible  night  passed  before  him.  He 
?aid:  "I  thought  of  that  night  on  the  bank  of  the  Arno. 
You  have  robbed  me  of  all  beauty  and  all  joy." 

He  besought  her  to  leave  him  alone.  In  his  weariness  he 
pitied  himself  profoundly.  He  would  have  liked  to  sleep, 
not  to  die:  death  always  filled  him  with  horror.  But  to 
sleep  and  never  wake.  Meanwhile  he  saw  her  before  him, 


244  THE  RED  LILY 

ardently  desired,  and  as  desirable  as  before,  with  her  face 
worn  by  suffering  and  in  spite  of  the  fixity  of  her  fevered 
gaze.  And  inscrutable  now,  more  mysterious  than  ever. 
He  looked  at  her.  His  hatred  revived  with  his  anguish. 
With  an  evil  glance,  he  sought  signs  of  caresses  that  he 
had  not  given  her. 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him: 

"Listen,  Jacques." 

He  showed  that  it  was  useless  for  her  to  speak.  Never- 
theless he  wanted  to  hear  her,  and  already  he  was  listening 
eagerly.  What  she  was  going  to  say,  he  hated  and  rejected 
beforehand,  but  it  was  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that 
interested  him.  She  said: 

"You  dared  to  believe  that  I  betrayed  you,  that  I  did 
not  live  in  and  for  you  alone.  But  don't  you  understand? 
Don't  you  realise  that  if  that  man  had  been  my  lover  he 
would  not  have  needed  to  speak  to  me  in  the  theatre,  in 
that  box;  he  would  have  had  a  thousand  other  opportunities 
of  arranging  a  rendezvous.  Oh!  no,  my  love,  I  assure  you 
that  since  I  have  had  the  happiness — and  even  to-day  in 
agony  and  sorrow,  I  still  say  happiness — of  knowing  you, 
I  have  been  yours  alone.  Could  I  possibly  have  been  an- 
other's? It  is  monstrous  to  imagine  it.  But  I  love  you,  I 
love  you.  It  is  you  alone  that  I  love.  I  have  never  loved 
another." 

He  replied  slowly,  with  cruel  deliberation: 

"  'Every  day  I  shall  be  in  our  flat,  Rue  Spontini,  after 
three  o'clock.'  It  was  no  lover,  not  your  lover  who  spoke 
those  words!  No!  It  was  a  stranger." 

She  rose,  and  with  sad  seriousness: 

"Yes,  I  have  been  his  mistress.  You  knew  it.  I  denied 
it,  I  lied,  so  as  not  to  give  you  pain,  not  to  irritate  you.  I 
saw  how  anxious  and  suspicious  you  were.  But  I  lied  so 
little  and  so  badly!  You  knew  it.  Don't  reproach  me  with 
it.  You  knew  it,  you  often  spoke  of  the  past,  and  then  one 
day  at  a  restaurant  you  heard.  .  .  .  And  your  imagination 
went  beyond  the  truth.  I  did  not  deceive  you  when  I  lied. 
And  if  you  knew  how  little  it  counts  in  my  life!  And  be- 
sideSj  I  did  not  know  you.  I  did  not  dream  that  I  should 
ever  know  you.  I  was  so  weary  of  my  life." 


THE  RED  LILY  245 

She  threw  herself  on  her  knees: 

"I  was  wrong.  I  ought  to  have  waited  for  you.  But,  if 
you  only  knew  how  all  that  is  as  if  it  had  never  been,  and 
it  was  so  very  little." 

And  in  a  sweet,  singing  voice,  she  said  over  and  over 
again  like  a  refrain: 

"Why  did  you  not  come  before?    Why?" 

She  crept  to  him,  tried  to  take  his  hands  and  clasp  his 
knees.  He  repulsed  her: 

"I  was  stupid.  I  did  not  believe,  I  did  not  know.  I  was 
resolved  not  to  know." 

He  rose,  and,  in  an  outburst  of  hatred: 

"I  could  not  bear  it,  no  I  could  not  bear  it  to  be  that 
one." 

She  sat  down  on  the  divan  that  he  had  quitted;  and  then 
plaintively,  speaking  low,  she  explained  the  past.  She  had 
been  cast  all  alone  into  a  horribly  commonplace  society. 
Then  it  had  happened,  she  had  yielded.  But  immediately 
she  had  regretted  it.  Oh!  if  he  knew  how  dull  and  sad  her 
life  had  been,  he  would  not  be  jealous,  he  would  pity 
her. 

She  shook  her  head,  and,  looking  at  him  through  her  dis- 
ordered hair: 

"But  I  am  talking  of  another  woman.  I  have  nothing  in 
common  with  that  woman.  I  have  existed  only  since  I 
knew  you,  since  I  was  yours." 

He  had  begun  to  pace  wildly  up  and  down  the  room,  just 
as  a  short  time  before  he  had  walked  on  the  banks  of  the 
Seine.  He  burst  into  a  bitter  laugh: 

"Yes,  but  while  you  were  loving  me,  what  about  the  other 
woman,  who  was  not  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  indignantly: 

"Can  you  believe  .    .    .  ?" 

"Didn't  you  see  him  at  Florence,  didn't  you  go  with  him 
to  the  station?" 

She  told  him  that  he  had  sought  her  in  Italy,  that  she 
had  met  him  and  parted  from  him,  that  he  had  gone  away 
in  anger,  and  that  since  he  had  tried  to  persuade  her  to 
come  back  to  him,  but  that  she  had  not  even  thought 
about  it. 


246  THE  RED  LILY 

"My  love,  I  see  none,  I  know  none  but  you." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  believe  you." 

She  grew  angry. 

"I  have  told  you  everything.  Accuse  me,  condemn  me, 
but  don't  insult  my  love  for  you.  That  I  forbid." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Leave  me.  You  have  hurt  me  too  much.  I  loved  you  so 
dearly  that  any  sorrow  you  might  have  caused  me,  I  would 
have  accepted  and  kept  and  loved;  but  this  is  hideous.  I 
hate  it.  Leave  me.  My  grief  is  too  deep.  Good-bye." 

Standing  firmly,  her  little  feet  planted  on  the  carpet: 

"I  came.  It  is  for  my  happiness,  my  life,  that  I  am  con- 
tending. I  am  resolute,  you  know.  I  will  not  go." 

And  she  repeated  all  she  had  said.  Emphatic  and  sin- 
cere, convinced  that  she  was  in  the  right,  she  explained  how 
she  had  broken  the  already  slackened  tie  that  chafed  her. 
She  told  how  from  the  day  when  she  had  yielded  to  him  in 
the  little  house  in  the  Via  Alfieri,  she  had  been  his  entirely, 
without  a  regret,  certainly  without  a  glance  or  a  thought  for 
any  one  else.  But  when  she  spoke  of  another,  she  angered 
him.  And  he  cried: 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

Then  she  began  again  to  repeat  what  she  had  said. 

And  suddenly,  instinctively  she  looked  at  her  watch: 

"Good  heavens!  it  is  twelve  o'clock." 

Many  a  time  she  had  uttered  the  same  cry  of  alarm  when 
the  hour  for  parting  had  surprised  them.  And  Jacques 
trembled  when  he  heard  those  familiar  words  now  so  sorrow- 
ful and  despairing.  For  a  few  minutes  longer  she  implored 
him  with  tears  and  passionate  words.  Then  she  was  obliged 
to  go ;  she  had  gained  nothing. 

At  home  she  found  market-women  waiting  in  the  hall  to 
present  her  with  a  bouquet.  She  remembered  that  her  hus- 
band was  minister.  There  were  piles  of  telegrams,  cards, 
letters,  congratulations,  requests.  Madame  Marmet  wrote 
asking  her  to  recommend  her  nephew  to  General  Lariviere. 

She  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  sank  exhausted  on  to 
a  divan.  M.  Martin-Belleme  was  finishing  his  lunch.  He 
was  due  at  once  at  a  cabinet  council  and  at  the  house  of  the 


THE  RED  LILY  247 

retiring  Minister  of  Finance,  on  whom  he  had  to  call.  The 
discreet  obsequiousness  of  his  staff  had  already  flattered, 
wearied,  and  perturbed  him. 

"Don't  forget,  my  love,"  he  said,  "to  call  on  Madame 
Berthier  d'Eyzelles.  You  know  how  sensitive  she  is." 

She  made  no  reply.  While  he  was  dipping  his  withered 
fingers  in  a  finger-glass,  he  looked  up,  and,  seeing  her  tired 
look  and  her  disordered  dress,  he  did  not  dare  to  say  an- 
other word. 

He  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  mystery  he  was  de- 
termined to  ignore,  a  secret  sorrow  which  one  word  might 
disclose.  It  filled  him  with  anxiety,  fear,  and  a  kind  of 
respect. 

He  threw  down  his  serviette. 

"Excuse  me,  my  dear." 

And  he  went  out. 

She  tried  to  eat.  She  could  swallow  nothing.  For  every- 
thing she  felt  an  uncontrollable  loathing. 

About  two  o'clock  she  went  back  to  the  little  house  at 
Les  Ternes.  She  found  Jacques  in  his  room.  He  was  smok- 
ing his  wooden  pipe.  A  cup  of  coffee  nearly  empty  was  on 
the  table.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  hardness  that  froze  the 
blood  in  her  veins.  She  did  not  dare  to  speak,  feeling  that 
all  she  might  say  would  offend  and  irritate  him,  and  that 
her  mere  appearance  discreet  and  silent  rekindled  his  wrath. 
He  knew  that  she  would  come  back;  he  had  expected  her 
with  the  impatience  of  hatred,  with  an  eagerness  as  keen  as 
when  he  waited  for  her  in  the  house  in  the  Via  Alfieri.  She 
saw  in  a  flash  that  she  had  been  unwise  in  coming;  absent 
he  would  have  desired  her,  longed  for  her,  summoned  her 
perhaps.  But  it  was  too  late;  and  besides,  being  prudent 
had  not  occurred  to  her. 

She  said  to  him: 

"You  see,  I  came  back;  I  could  not  do  otherwise.  And 
it  was  quite  natural,  since  I  love  you.  You  know  it." 

She  had  felt  that  everything  she  could  say  would  only  ir- 
ritate him.  He  asked  her  if  she  said  as  much  in  the  Rue 
Spontini. 

She  looked  at  him  profoundly  sad. 

"Jacques,  you  have  often  said  that  deep  down  in  your 


248  THE  RED  LILY 

heart  was  a  world  of  hatred  and  anger,  which  might  break 
forth  against  me.  I  see  you  like  to  make  me  suffer." 

With  loving  patience,  she  retold  at  length  the  story  of  her 
life,  the  emptiness  and  sadness  of  the  past,  and  how,  since 
he  had  made  her  his,  she  had  lived  only  in  him  and  through 
him. 

Her  words  were  as  sincere  as  her  glance.  She  was  sitting 
near  him.  From  time  to  time  he  felt  the  now  timid  touch 
of  her  fingers  and  the  warmth  of  her  fevered  breath.  He 
listened  with  a  cruel  interest.  Hard  on  himself,  he  wanted 
to  know  everything:  her  latest  meeting  with  Le  Menil,  and 
the  story  of  their  final  rupture.  She  told  him  faithfully  all 
that  had  happened  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Grande  Bretagne; 
but  she  represented  it  as  having  taken  place  in  a  walk  in 
the  Cascine,  for  fear  lest  the  thought  of  their  sad  interview 
in  a  private  room  should  still  further  anger  her  lover.  Then 
she  explained  the  meeting  at  the  station.  She  had  not 
wished  to  drive  to  desperation  a  sad  passionate  man.  Since 
then  she  had  heard  nothing  of  him  till  the  day  when  he 
spoke  to  her  in  the  Avenue  Mac-Mahon.  She  repeated  what 
he  had  said  under  the  Judas-tree.  Two  days  later  she  had 
seen  him  in  her  box  at  the  opera.  She  had  certainly  not  in- 
vited him  to  come.  That  was  the  truth. 

It  was  the  truth.  But  the  old  poison  slowly  accumulated 
was  working.  The  past,  the  irreparable  past  had  been  called 
into  the  present  by  her  confession.  He  saw  it  and  it  tor- 
tured him. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  he  said.    And  he  added: 

"And  if  I  did  believe  you,  the  very  thought  that  you  had 
been  the  mistress  of  that  man  would  make  it  impossible  for 
me  ever  to  see  you  again.  I  told  you  so,  I  wrote  it  to  you — 
you  remember,  when  you  were  at  Dinard.  I  could  not  bear 
it  to  be  he.  And  since  ..." 

He  paused.    She  said: 

"You  know  there  has  been  nothing  since." 

He  resumed  with  sullen  passion: 

"Since,  I  have  seen  him." 

Long  they  remained  silent.  At  length,  in  a  surprised 
and  plaintive  tone  she  said: 

"But,  my  love,  you  should  have  thought  that  a  woman 


THE  RED  LILY  249 

like  me,  married  as  I  was.  .  .  .  Every  day  women  come  to 
their  lovers  with  a  more  serious  past  than  mine,  and  are 
loved  nevertheless.  Ah!  if  you  only  knew  how  little  my 
past  counts  for  in  my  life." 

"I  know  what  you  can  be.  One  cannot  forgive  in  you 
what  one  would  overlook  in  another." 

"But,  my  love,  I  am  like  other  women." 

"No,  you  are  not  like  the  others.  In  you  oothing  can  be 
overlooked." 

He  spoke  with  compressed  mouth  and  look  of  hatred. 
His  eyes,  those  eyes  that  she  had  seen  so  big,  so  sparkling 
with  the  gentle  fire  of  love,  now  hard  and  dry,  ?unken  be- 
hind their  wrinkled  lids,  made  him  look  quite  different.  He 
frightened  her. 

She  went  to  the  opposite  end  qf  the  room.  Seated  there, 
with  her  heart  in  her  throat,  her  eyes  wide  open  with  aston- 
ishment, like  a  child,  she  stayed  long,  trembling  and  stifling 
her  sobs.  Then  she  burst  out  crying. 

"Why  did  I  ever  know  you?"  he  sighed. 

Through  her  tears,  she  answered: 

"I  do  not  regret  having  known  you.  It  is  killing  me,  and 
I  do  not  regret  it.  I  have  loved." 

He  cruelly  persisted  in  making  her  suffer.  He  knew  hov 
badly  he  was  acting  and  yet  could  not  help  himself. 

"It  is  possible  that  after  all  you  may  have  loved  me  too.' 

With  a  slight  bitterness,  she  replied: 

"But  I  loved  you  only.  I  loved  you  too  well.  That  is 
what  you  are  punishing  me  for  now.  .  .  .Oh!  how  can 
you  think  that  I  ever  was  to  another  what  I  have  been  to 
you!" 

"Why  not?" 

She  looked  at  him  without  strength  or  courage: 

"Tell  me,  is  it  true  that  you  don't  believe  me?" 

She  added  very  softly: 

"If  I  were  to  kill  myself,  would  you  believe  me?" 

"No,  I  should  not  believe  you." 

She  wiped  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  then  looking 
up,  her  eyes  sparkling  through  her  tears: 

"Then,  it  is  all  over." 

She  rose,  looked  round  the  room  at  the  thousand  things 


250  THE  RED  LILY 

with  which  she  had  lived  in  joyful,  voluptuous  intimacy, 
that  she  had  made  her  own,  and  that  now  suddenly  were 
nothing  to  her;  they  regarded  her  as  a  stranger  and  an 
enemy;  she  looked  at  the  nude  woman,  who  was  making 
that  gesture  in  flight  that  had  not  been  explained  to  her; 
the  Florentine  medals  recalling  Fiesole  and  the  enchanted 
hours  in  Italy;  Dechartre's  study  of  the  profile  of  a  street 
girl  with  a  laugh  on  her  thin  worn  pretty  face.  She  paused 
for  a  moment,  she  stood  in  front  of  it,  sympathising  with 
that  little  newspaper-seller,  who  had  also  come  there  and 
disappeared,  carried  into  the  terrible  immensity  of  life  and 
things. 

She  repeated: 

"Then  it  is  over." 

He  was  silent. 

Their  forms  were  growing  indistinct  in  the  twilight. 

She  said: 

"What  is  to  become  of  me?" 

He  replied: 

"And  what  will  become  of  me?" 

They  looked  pitifully  at  each  other,  because  each  was 
filled  with  self  pity.  , 

Therese  continued: 

"And  I  who  used  to  fear  growing  old,  for  your  sake  and 
mine,  lest  our  beautiful  love  might  utterly  die!  It  would 
have  been  better  had  it  never  been  born.  Yes,  it  would 
have  been  better  had  I  never  been  born.  Was  it  not  an 
omen  when  as  a  child,  under  the  lime-trees  at  Joinville, 
near  the  Crown,  in  front  of  the  marble  nymphs,  I  longed  to 
die?" 

With  arms  hanging  down  and  hands  clasped,  she  looked 
up;  through  her  tears,  her  eyes  sparkled  in  the  gloom. 

"Is  there  no  way  of  making  you  feel  that  what  I  tell  you 
in  true,  that  never,  since  I  was  yours,  never.  .  .  .  But 
how  could  I?  The  very  idea  seems  to  me  horrible,  absurd! 
Can  you  know  me  so  little?" 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"I  don't  know  you." 

Once  again  she  looked  round  questioningly  at  all  the 
things  in  the  room  that  had  witnessed  their  love. 


THE  RED  LILY  25^. 

"But  then,  all  that  we  have  been  to  each  other  ...  it 
was  in  vain,  it  was  useless.  We  have  merely  met,  we  have 
not  become  one." 

She  grew  indignant.  It  was  impossible  for  him  not  to 
realise  what  he  was  to  her. 

And  in  the  passion  of  her  rejected  love,  she  threw  herself 
into  his  arms  and  covered  him  with  tears  and  kisses. 

He  forgot  everything,  took  her,  aching,  broken,  but 
happy,  and  pressed  her  in  his  arms  with  the  mournful  rage 
of  desire.  Already  her  head  thrown  back  on  the  pillow,  she 
was  smiling  through  her  tears.  Suddenly  he  tore  himself 
away  from  her. 

"I  no  longer  see  you  alone.  The  other  is  always  with 
you." 

Silent,  indignant,  despairing,  she  looked  at  him.  She  rose, 
arranged  her  dress  and  her  hair,  with  a  feeling  of  shame 
that  was  new  to  her.  Then,  realising  that  the  end  had  come, 
she  looked  around  her  in  astonishment,  with  eyes  that  saw 
nothing,  and  went  out  slowly. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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